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t  ^^^-  ,4^-C^-          .v.^ 

^^^c^^      ^tA-/*-    &^G-r-~&    ^ 


Milton  Newnark 


THE  VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD 


fHacmtllan's  Docket  lEnigltsf) 


A  Series  of  English  Texts,  edited  for  use  in 

Secondary  Schools,  with  Critical 

Introductions,  Notes,  etc. 


I6mo.  Levanteen.          25c.  each. 


MACAULAY'S  ESSAY  ON  ADDISON. 
MACAULAY'S  ESSAY  ON  MILTON. 
TENNYSON'S  THE  PRINCESS. 
ELIOT'S  SILAS  MARNER. 
COLERIDGE'S  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 
COOPER'S  THE  LAST  OF  THE  MOHICANS. 
BURKE'S  SPEECH  ON  CONCILIATION. 
POPE'S  HOMER'S  ILIAD. 
GOLDSMITH'S  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 
SHAKESPEARE'S  MACBETH. 
ADDISON'S  SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY. 
SHAKESPEARE'S  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 
DRYDEN'S  PALAMON  AND  ARCITE. 
BYRON'S  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


OTHERS   TO    FOLLOW. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


THE 

VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 

A   TALE 

SUPPOSED   TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  HIMSELF 

BY  OLIVEE   GOLDSMITH 

mtsert,  cabete  feiices 


EDITED 

WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 
BY 

HEKRY  W.   BOYNTON,  M.A. 

INSTRUCTOR   IN    ENGLISH,   PHILLIPS  ACADEMY,   ANDOVER 


Nefo 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1899 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1899, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


ADVERTISEMENT 

There  are  an  hundred  faults  in  this  thing,  and  an  hundred 
things  might  be  said  to  prove  them  beauties.  But  it  is  need- 
less. A  book  may  be  amusing  with  numerous  errors,  or  it 
may  be  very  dull  without  a  single  absurdity.  The  hero  of 
this  piece  unites  in  himself  the  three  greatest  characters  upon 
earth ;  he  is  a  priest,  an  husbandman,  and  the  father  of  a 
family.  He  is  drawn  as  ready  to  teach  and  ready  to  obey  ; 
as  simple  in  affluence  and  majestic  in  adversity.  In  this  age 
of  opulence  and  refinement  whom  can  such  a  character  please  ? 
Such  as  are  fond  of  high  life,  will  turn  with  disdain  from 
the  simplicity  of  his  country  fire-side.  Such  as  mistake  rib- 
aldry for  humour,  will  find  no  wit  in  his  harmless  conversa- 
tion;  and  such  as  have  been  taught  to  deride  religion,  will 
laugh  at  one  whose  chief  stores  of  comfort  are  drawn  from 
futurity. 

OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


PREFACE 

To  one  who  is  familiar  with  eighteenth  century  life  and  lit- 
erature, and  with  the  mind  and  art  of  Goldsmith,  The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield  needs  little  commentary.  A  few  obscure  allusions, 
an  archaic  word  or  two,  call  for  explanation ;  but  that  is  all. 
Indeed,  it  is  so  simple  and  obvious  to  such  a  reader  that  he  is 
not  unlikely  to  suppose  it  to  be  equally  intelligible  to  those 
who  lack  his  basis  of  information.  The  experience  of  the  pres- 
ent editor  is  far  from  proving  the  correctness  of  this  supposition. 
It  is  true  that,  just  as  a  modern  gallery  audience  listens  with 
satisfaction  to  a  Shakespeare  comedy,  —  so  wide  is  the  range 
of  pleasure  afforded  by  a  great  work  of  art,  —  a  modern  class  of 
boys  does  not  find  itself  entirely  at  a  loss  upon  a  casual  reading 
of  Goldsmith's  tale.  But  the  danger  lies  for  them  in  just  this 
apparent  simplicity  of  the  task  before  them.  Having  found 
some  portions  of  the  story  amusing,  according  to  their  lights, 
they  are  ready  with  a  complacent  condemnation  of  the  rest; 
and  it  is  more  than  an  even  chance  that  the  part  which  has 
pleased  them  is  the  least  valuable  part  of  the  work.  They 
read  it  for  the  incident,  and  everything  else  is  an  impertinence 
to  them.  Compared  with  the  romances  of  Scott  and  Stevenson 
and  Crockett,  with  which  most  of  them  are  familiar,  The  Vicar 

vii 


viii  PREFACE 

of  Wakefield  makes  no  great  figure  as  a  narrative.  So  the 
average  boy  brings  in  the  verdict,  "  A  pretty  good  story  (for  a 
school-book),  but  slow  in  parts." 

It  is  quite  right  that  this  boy  should  first  be  given  the  chance 
to  read  the  story  through  in  his  own  way,  and  to  form  his  own 
honest  opinion  of  it.  But  it  is  not  in  the  least  right  that  he 
should  be  permitted  to  keep  that  opinion,  supposing  it  to  be 
inadequate,  if  the  efforts  of  editor  and  teacher  can  bring  him  to 
an  equally  honest  change  of  his  estimate.  To  this  result,  of  a 
genuine  comprehension,  the  present  editor  has  tried  to  contribute 
in  two  ways :  by  calling  attention  to  the  value  of  the  charac- 
terization or  portraiture,  and  to  the  comparative  insignificance 
of  the  incident ;  and  by  emphasizing  the  difference  in  atmosphere 
and  flavor  between  English  eighteenth  century  life  and  our  own. 
To  wean  the  boy  from  his  nineteenth  century  preoccupation, 
and  to  give  him  the  point  of  view  of  the  author,  and  of  the 
reader  to  whom  the  book  was  immediately  addressed,  is  cer- 
tainly essential  to  his  understanding  of  the  book,  and,  therefore, 
to  his  full  enjoyment  of  it. 

The  present  text  is  based  on  the  fifth  edition,  but  with  some 
variations.  Special  acknowledgments  are  due  to  the  editions 
of  Hudson  and  Jordan  for  information  on  some  obscure  matters. 

H.  W.  B. 
ANDOVER,  December,  1898. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  xv 

I.     Goldsmith xv 

II.     The  Vicar  of  Wakefield xxviii 

THE   VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 1 

CHAPTER   I 

The  Description  of  the  Family  of  Wakefield,  in  which  a  kin- 
dred Likeness  prevails,  as  well  of  Minds  as  of  Persons    .         1 

CHAPTER   II 

Family  Misfortunes.     The  Loss  of  Fortune  only  serves  to 

increase  the  Pride  of  the  Worthy 5 

CHAPTER   III 

A  Migration.    The  Fortunate  Circumstances  of  our  Lives  are 

generally  found  at  last  to  be  of  our  own  procuring  .        .        8 

CHAPTER  IV 

A  Proof  that  even  the  humblest  Fortune  may  grant  Happiness, 

which  depends,  not  on  Circumstances,  but  Constitution  .       15 
ix 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER   V 

PAGE 

A  new  and  great  Acquaintance  introduced.     What  we  place 

most  Hopes  upon,  generally  proves  most  fatal ...       18 

CHAPTER   VI 
The  Happiness  of  a  Country  Fireside 22 

CHAPTER   VII 

A  Town  Wit  described.     The  dullest  Fellows  may  learn  to 

be  comical  for  a  Night  or  two 26 

CHAPTER   VIII 

An  Amour,  which  promises  little  good  Fortune,  yet  may  be 

productive  of  much 30 

CHAPTER   IX 

Two  Ladies  of  great  Distinction  introduced.     Superior  Finery 

ever  seems  to  confer  superior  Breeding    ....      37 

CHAPTER   X 

The  Family  endeavour  to  cope  with  their  Betters.  The 
Miseries  of  the  Poor  when  they  attempt  to  appear  above 
their  Circumstances 40 

CHAPTER   XI 

The  Family  still  resolve  to  hold  up  their  Heads      .  .      44 


CONTENTS  xi 

CHAPTER   XII 

PAGE; 
Fortune  seems  resolved  to  humble  the  Family  of  Wakefield. 

Mortifications  are  often  more  painful  than  real  Calamities      49 

CHAPTER  XIII 

Mr.  Burchell  is  found  to  be  an  Enemy,  for  he  has  the  Confi- 
dence to  give  disagreeable  Advice 54 

CHAPTER   XIV 

Fresh  Mortifications,  or  a  Demonstration  that  seeming  Ca- 
lamities may  be  real  Blessings 57 

CHAPTER   XV 

All  Mr.  Burchell's  Villany  at  once  detected.     The  Folly  of 

being  overwise 63 

CHAPTER  XVI 

The  Family  use  Art,  which  is  opposed  with  still  greater         .      68 

CHAPTER   XVII 

Scarcely  any  Virtue  found  to  resist  the  Power  of  long  and 

pleasing  Temptation 73 

CHAPTER   XVIII 

The  Pursuit  of  a  Father  to  reclaim  a  lost  Child  to  Virtue       .       81 


Xll  CONTENTS 


CHAPTER   XIX 

PAGE 

The  Description  of  a  Person  discontented  with  the  present 
Government,  and  apprehensive  of  the  Loss  of  our 
Liberties 85 

CHAPTER  XX 

The  History  of  a  Philosophic  Vagabond,  pursuing  Novelty, 

but  losing  Content 94 

CHAPTER   XXI 

The  short  Continuance  of  Friendship  amongst  the  Vicious, 

which  is  coeval  only  with  mutual  Satisfaction  ,        .        .108 

CHAPTER   XXII 

Offences  are  easily  pardoned  where  there  is  Love  at  bottom  .     116 

CHAPTER  XXIII 

None  but  the  Guilty  can  be  long  and  completely  miserable     .     120 

CHAPTER   XXIV 
Fresh  Calamities 124 

CHAPTER   XXV 

No  Situation,  however  wretched  it  seems,  but  has    some  sort 

of  Comfort  attending  it 129 


CONTENTS  Xlll 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

PAGE 

A  Reformation  in  the  Gaol.     To  make  Laws  complete,  they 

should  reward  as  well  as  punish 133 


CHAPTER   XXVII 
The  same  Subject  continued 138 

CHAPTER  XXVIII 

Happiness  and  Misery  rather  the  Result  of  Prudence  than  of 
Virtue  in  this  Life ;  temporal  Evils  or  Felicities  being 
regarded  by  Heaven  as  things  merely  in  themselves 
trifling,  and  unworthy  its  Care  in  the  Distribution  .  .  142 

CHAPTER   XXIX 

The  equal  Dealings  of  Providence  demonstrated  with  regard 
to  the  Happy  and  the  Miserable  here  below.  That,  from 
the  Nature  of  Pleasure  and  Pain,  the  Wretched  must  be 
paid  the  Balance  of  their  Sufferings  in  the  Life  hereafter  152 

CHAPTER  XXX 

Happier  Prospects  begin  to  appear.     Let  us  be  inflexible,  and 

Fortune  will  at  last  change  in  our  Favour         .        .        .     156 

CHAPTER   XXXI 

Former  Benevolence  now  repaid  with  unexpected  Interest     .     164 


XIV  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER   XXXII 

The  Conclusion 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE  . 
NoTES      • 


184 


INDEX  TO  NOTES     .......  205 


INTRODUCTION 


GOLDSMITH 

MANY  of  our  English  men  of  letters  we  are  accustomed  to 
regard  only  as  men  of  letters.  Whatever  is  significant  in  them 
appears  in  their  books,  and  mainly  in  their  books ;  the  events 
and  immediate  conditions  of  their  private  lives  are  indifferent 
matters  to  any  but  curious  lovers  of  their  work.  But  there 
are  a  few  English  writers  — most  of  them  are  distinctively 
poets  —  who  as  men  hold  our  affection  even  more  strongly 
than  as  authors  they  command  our  interest.  Each  of  them 
apparently  makes  his  claim  upon  us  by  his  weakness  as  much, 
almost,  as  by  his  strength.  It  is  a  subtle  flattery  to  us  to  find 
that  these  men  who  did  so  much  more  in  art  than  we  can  do 
were,  after  all,  human  and  fallible  in  the  conduct  of  their  own 
lives.  To  pity  them  is  a  luxury  —  which  we  -sometimes  abuse. 
But  the  explanation  of  our  attitude  toward  them  goes  deeper 
than  this.  If  they  did  not,  even  in  their  poor  faulty  lives,  show 
some  element  of  strength  which  is  lacking  in  us,  we  should  not 
care  for  them.  In  all  such  cases,  if  we  get  to  the  root  of  our 
feeling,  we  are  likely  to  find  that  it  is  the  deep  note  of  a  sym- 
pathy and  love  beyond  our  own,  ringing  in  and  through  the 
story  of  apparent  failure,  which  echoes  in  us,  and  makes  us  glad 
for  them  and  proud  of  them. 

Goldsmith  was  a  man  of  this  rare  type.  He  has  always 
been  loved,  and  he  has  always  been  patronized  and  misunder- 

xv 


XVI  INTRODUCTION 

stood.  His  work  was  highly  esteemed  by  the  best  men  of 
his  time;  those  who  knew  him  most  intimately  found  him 
personally  lovable :  but  very  few  of  them  gave  him  reverence, 
and  not  many  gave  him  respect.  And  even  now,  when  the 
few  but  strangely  perfect  products  of  his  art  have  for  more 
than  a  century  kept  their  hold  on  more  than  the  English- 
reading  public,  we  still  find  ourselves  looking  back  to  him  with 
a  sort  of  apologetic  fondness.  He  is  still,  in  our  habitual 
thought  of  him,  not  Dr.  Goldsmith,  author  of  various  more  or 
less  pretentious  and  salable  works  in  science  and  history,  — 
not  Oliver  Goldsmith,  the  consummate  poet  of  The  Trav- 
eller and  The  Deserted  Village, — but  "honest  Goldsmith," 
the  "poor  Goldy,"  whom  even  Boswells  found  it  easy  to  pat- 
ronize, and  who  died  at  hardly  middle  age,  in  debt,  and  with 
a  mind  not  at  ease. 

But  our  interest  in  Goldsmith's  life  and  personality  would 
naturally  be  strong  for  another  reason  than  that  which  lies 
in  the  inherent  charm  of  the  man.  Not  only  in  spirit,  but  in 
detail,  his  books  are  the  outcome  of  that  life  and  personality. 
Hardly  a  description  in  his  verse,  hardly  an  incident  in  his 
fiction,  hardly  a  situation  in  his  plays,  but  grew  directly  out 
of  his  personal  experience.  Such  being  the  nature  of  his 
creative  method,  it  is  fortunate  that  his  experience  of  life  was 
a  somewhat  varied  and  strenuous  one.  It  has  been  the  habit 
of  his  biographers  to  enlarge  upon  the  privations  of  his  youth, 
his  hand-to-mouth  existence  in  London,  his  years  of  enforced 
hack-work,*in  a  spirit  of  regret :  as  if  with  a  silver  spoon  in 
his  mouth  the  careless  fellow  would  ever  have  taken  the  trouble 
to  sing,  or  with  a  golden  pen  in  his  hand,  to  write.  As  it  is, 
Goldsmith  produced  three  masterpieces  in  three  several  types 
of  creative  effort.  Given  all  his  time  free  from  bailiffs  and 
taskmasters,  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether  he  would  ever  have 
written  anything  of  note  whatever.  In  the  Irish  village  life 
of  his  early  years,  in  his  failures  in  scholarship,  law,  divinity, 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH  xvil 

medicine,  in  his  haphazard  journey  through  Europe,  in  his 
plodding  life  in  London,  lie  the  warp  and  woof  of  his  literary 
success.  It  is  well  worth  while,  therefore,  to  know  something 
about  the  man  before  we  approach  his  work. 

Of  his  earliest  years  little  need  be  said,  except  that  he  was 
found  by  the  authorities  to  be  uncommonly  dull,  unless  at 
hatching  deviltries,  and  clever  in  nothing  but  in  getting  rid 
of  money  and  opportunities.  He  went  the  usual  round  of 
dame-schools  and  private  academies,  receiving  perhaps  more 
than  his  share  of  scorn  from  the  masters  and  abuse  from  the 
boys.  With  his  great  head,  insignificant  pock-marked  face, 
fidgety  manners,  and  unready  tongue,  he  was  little  likely  to 
make  his  way  in  that  most  conventional  of  societies,  a  school 
community.  A  bit  of  doggerel  ascribed  to  his  early  boyhood, 
the  tradition  of  certain  excellent  Latin  exercises  —  these  are 
all  the  ingenuity  of  the  biographer  has  been  able  to  unearth  by 
way  of  posthumous  prophecy  of  Goldsmith's  long-delayed  success. 
It  was  an  unpromising  boyhood,  yet  not  altogether  wasted,  as 
we  know  now.  For  to  the  tender  impressions  of  those  early 
days,  Goldsmith's  warm  and  sanguine  nature  was  singularly 
loyal.  It  was  exactly  that  unpromising  youth  of  his,  with  its 
just  not  squalid  experiences,  which,  seen  through  the  glorifying 
haze  of  memory,  turned'  to  sweetness  and  pure  delight  for  gen- 
erations of  the  human  kind  he  loved  and  understood. 
r~  Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  November- 10,  1728,  in  the  little 
Irish  hamlet  of  Pallasmore.  He  was  the  fifth  child  of  Charles 
Goldsmith,  a  poor  country  parson,  who  at  that  time  tilled  a  bit 
of  ground,  like  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  to  eke  out  his  "forty 
pounds  a  year."  Of  English  descent,  the  Goldsmiths  had  been 
long  enough  in  Ireland  to  assimilate  many  of  the  Irish  charac- 
teristics. After  many  years  of  residence  in  England,  Goldsmith 
still  spoke  with  a  marked  brogue ;  and  much  of  his  strength,  as 
well  as  of  his  weakness,  seems  to  belong  plainly  to  the  warm 
heart  and  hasty  blood  of  the  kind  race  among  whom  his  childish 


xvill  INTRODUCTION 

and  boyish  years  were  spent.  His  mother  did  not  understand 
him ;  his  father's  wide  benevolence  was  perhaps  too  impersonal 
to  yield  a  special  tenderness  to  this  flighty  son.  His  brother 
Henry  and  his  Uncle  Contarine,  both  clergymen,  seem  to  have 
been  his  chief  friends,  among  the  reputable,  during  his 
school  and  college  days.  The  uncle,  especially,  was  as  kind 
and  patient  with  the  reckless  boy  as  if  he  had  foreseen  the 
greatness  of  which  he  was  to  have  not  even  the  earliest  proofs ; 
for  his  death  came  when  Goldsmith  was  still  a  vagabond  and 
ne'er-do-weel. 

In  1744,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  Goldsmith  was  found  to  know 
enough,  and  not  more  than  enough,  to  enter  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  as  a  sizar  or  charity  student.  In  1747  his  father  died, 
and  it  was  only  the  goodness  of  his  Uncle  Contarine  that  made 
it  possible  for  him  to  complete  the  course.  Through  the  course 
he  came,  in  spite  of  rows  with  the  town,  quarrels  with  his 
tutor,  —  who  treated  him  brutally,  —  and  general  inefficiency. 
He  was  graduated,  as  he  had  been  entered,  the  last  on  the  list 
of  candidates  ;  we  do  not  even  know  that  a  higher  place  would 
have  pleased  him  more.  At  twenty-one  he  was  supposed  to  be 
ready  to  meet  "  the  world."  But  a  struggle  with  that  chimera 
of  the  undergraduate  had  no  immediate  attraction  for  him. 
"After  college,"  says  Thackeray,  "  he  hung  about  his 
mother's  house  and  lived  for  some  years  the  life  of  a  buckeen 
—  passed  a  month  with  this  relation  and  that,  a  year  with  one 
patron,  a  great  deal  of  time  at  the  public-house."  At  last  he 
resolved  —  or  it  was  resolved  for  him  —  to  bestir  himself,  and 
a  series  of  experiments  began,  each  of  them  predestined,  by  his 
temperament,  to  failure.  He  tried,  since  everybody  expected 
it  of  him,  to  enter  the  Church.  A  tradition  has  it  that  the 
Bishop  refused  him  on  account  of  the  red  breeches  in  which  he 
made  his  application.  He  tried  teaching;  but  after  a  time 
finding  himself  independent,  retired  with  a  fortune  of  thirty 
pounds,  which  was  soon  lost  at  cards.  Fifty  pounds  advanced 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH  xix 

by  the  good  uncle  to  help  him  to  the  study  of  law  disappeared 
in  the  same  way.  Three  of  the  learned  professions  were  thus  dead 
to  Goldsmith.  But  there  was  a  fourth  to  be  tried ;  and  it  was 
not  long  before  he  persuaded  his  uncle  to  send  him  to  Edin- 
burgh to  study  medicine.  He  was  never  to  see  Ireland 
again. 

At  Edinburgh  he  lived  —  "  and  informed  his  uncle  that  he 
studied,"  says  Mr.  Black  —  for  a  year  and  a  half.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  we  find  him  once  more  applying>in  one  of  his  plausible 
begging  letters,  for  means  to  proceed  with  his  studies  in  Ley- 
den.  He  did  not  stay  long  in  Holland.  His  money  gave  out, 
and,  having  no  further  professional  training  in  mind,  or  per- 
haps taking  pity  on  his  Uncle  Contarine,  he  determined  to 
shift  for  himself.  Accordingly,  in  February,  1755,  "with  one 
clean  shirt,  and  no  money  in  his  pocket,"  he  set  out,  on  foot, 
to  see  Europe.  Our  knowledge  of  that  journey  is  vague ;  we 
are  only  certain  that  for  a  year  he  wandered  through  France 
and  Germany,  Switzerland  and  Italy,  winning  his  way  by  the 
aid  of  his  flute  and  his  good-humored  face.  Of  guide-book  in- 
formation he  absorbed  little  enough ;  but  we  may  be  sure  that 
in  this  experience,  as  in  all  the  experiences  of  his  life,  he 
gained  a  constantly  widening  knowledge  of  himself  and  his 
kind  :  a  knowledge  which  comes  not  peculiarly  to  the  traveller 
or  the  stay-at-home,  but  to  that  union  of  warm  sympathy  and 
subtle  intelligence  which  are  so  rare,  at  home  or  abroad.  Gold- 
smith returned  from  Europe  somewhat  mysteriously  the  pos- 
sessor of  a  degree.  Where  he  got  it  we  do  not  know,  but  we 
shall  see  that  it  represented  a  very  slight  scientific  attainment 
on  his  part. 

The  spring  of  1756  found  him  in  London,  an  unknown  Dr. 
Goldsmith,  with  no  money,  few  friends,  and  apparently  fewer 
prospects.  The  good  Uncle  Contarine  had  died  while  the  good- 
for-nothing  nephew  was  in  Italy ;  that  door  was  closed  forever. 
The  experience  of  the  next  few  years  was  still  unpromising 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

enough.  The  new-fledged  physician  tried  to  practice  medicine 
in  a  humble  way,  but  without  success.  He  became  proof- 
reader in  the  establishment  of  Samuel  Richardson,  printer  and 
novelist.  He  wrote  a  tragedy,  and  on  Richardson's  advice  put 
it  out  of  misery  at  once.  He  became  usher  in  a  boarding- 
school,  and  suffered  much.  At  the  table  of  Dr.  Milner,  his 
superior,  he  met  a  Mr.  Griffiths,  a  bookseller  (which  at  that 
time  meant  also  a  publisher),  and  was  by  him  shortly  persuaded 
to  become  writer  of  odds  and  ends  to  a  Griffiths  periodical,  The 
Monthly  Review.  Goldsmith  soon  found  this  position  intolera- 
ble. In  less  than  a  year  he  was  back  with  Dr.  Milner,  through 
whom  presently  another  opportunity  offered  itself  for  his  ad- 
vancement, in  the  form  of  a  medical  appointment  in  India. 
After  some  delay  the  appointment  was  actually  made ;  the  com- 
mission was  drawn  up  and  signed ;  and  at  the  last  moment, 
for  some  unknown  reason,  the  whole  matter  fell  through. 
Driven  to  a  last  resource,  the  poor  Doctor  applied  for  a  posi- 
tion as  hospital  mate  in  London,  and  was  found  not  qualified. 
This  was  in  1758 ;  Goldsmith  had  passed  his  thirtieth  birth- 
day, and  had  as  yet  made  nothing  of  himself.  The  future 
looked  dark  indeed. 

But,  as  it  happened,  he  was  at  that  moment  on  the  eve  of 
his  first  success  in  the  field  for  which  nature  intended  him. 
He  could  not  be  a  surgeon  in  Coromandel,  or  a  hospital  mate 
in  London ;  he  was  destined  to  be  something  better.  To  de- 
fray the  necessary  expenses  connected  with  the  proposed  Indian 
appointment,  he  had  planned  and  begun  to  write  a  little  book, 
to  be  entitled  An  Enquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite 
Learning  in  Europe.  Its  title  is  more  weighty  than  its  con- 
tents; but  in  manner  it  has  something  of  the  lightness  and 
ease  which  belong  to  Goldsmith's  mature  style.  The  little 
work  was  not  received  with  enthusiasm  by  the  critics  —  it  told 
too  many  truths  about  them  —  but  it  was  not  ignored.  Gold- 
smith had  made  his  first  impression  as  a  man  of  letters.  From 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH  XXI 

this  time,  what  had  been  only  a  makeshift  employment  became 
something  more ;  the  hack-writer  seriously  desired  to  become 
an  author. 

Indeed,  the  impression  of  this  first  work  was  not  altogether 
negative.  Soon  after  its  publication  a  sanguine  bookseller 
thought  well  enough  of  the  new  writer  to  consign  to  his  hand 
the  entire  authorship  of  a  new  periodical.  In  The  Bee,  more 
distinctly  than  in  the  Enquiry,  we  find  the  flavor  of  the  real 
Goldsmith.  Some  of  the  papers  are  impersonal,  even  conven- 
tional ;  but  in  a  few  the  man  himself  appears,  tender,  whimsical, 
full  of  his  own  concerns,  yet  conscious  of  their  unimpor- 
tance to  others,  and  no  less  alive  to  his  own  foibles  than  to 
those  of  his  neighbors.  Only  eight  numbers  of  the  little  peri- 
odical were  published.  It  lacked  the  authority  of  a  great  name, 
as  it  lacked  the  element  of  gossip  and  scandal  which  needs  no 
authority ;  above  all,  its  strain  was  too  fine,  its  humor  too 
subtle,  to  catch  the  popular  ear. 

But  though  The  Bee  was  commercially  a  failure,  it  made 
new  friends  for  its  author :  Smollett  the  novelist,  Burke  the 
statesman,  and  Johnson  the  literary  dictator  of  all  England. 
The  good  opinion  of  these  superior  critics  was  confirmed  by  the 
appearance  during  1760  of  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  a  series 
of  letters  printed  in  The  Public  Ledger.,  commenting  upon 
England  and  the  English,  and  purporting  to  be  written  by  a 
Chinese  visitor.  The  idea  was  an  old  one ;  the  application  of 
it  was  quite  original.  No  one  but  Goldsmith  could  have  written 
these  papers,  which  display  the  same  odd  mingling  of  keen 
insight  and  childlike  simplicity  that  marks  the  author's 
conduct  of  his  life.  Political  weaknesses,  foibles  of  fashion, 
long-accepted  usages  of  society  —  all  are  quietly  satirized  by 
the  pen  of  this  quasi-Oriental,  who  is  after  all  only  an  English- 
man independent  enough  to  take  life  at  first  hand.  Several 
figures,  too,  appear,  as  distinct  and  humanly  probable  as  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley  and  his  friends,  or  as  the  Vicar  himself.  The 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

Man  in  Black  and  Beau  Tibbs,  especially,  deserve  a  far  wider 
circle  of  modern  acquaintance,  v  From  this  time  on,  Goldsmith's 
work  was  sought  by  the  booksellers ;  and  the  occasional  priva- 
tions of  his  subsequent  experience  were  due  not  to  a  lack  of 
resources,  but  to  the  utter  carelessness  and  prodigality  of  his 
mode  of  life.  Not  long  after  the  publication  of  The  Citizen 
of  the  World  he  found  it  possible  to  take  better  lodgings,  in 
Wine  pffice  Court,  and  there  entertained  some  of  his  new  and 
distinguishes  acquaintances. 

I"  In  1762  is  recorded  the  fact  of  the  sale  to  a  printer 
^  named  Collins  of  a  third  share  in  a  new  book,  to  be  published 
in  two  volumes,  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  This  makes  it 
probable  that  the  incident  to  be  quoted  took  place  earlier  in 
the  same  year,  when  the  story,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  had  already 
taken  the  form  of  a  first  rough  draft.  Goldsmith  had  by  this 
time  found  his  rooms  in  Wine  Office  Court  beyond  his  means. 
His  rent  fell  farther  and  farther  in  arrears,  till  the  landlady 
in  despair  called  in  the  bailiffs,  and  the  poet  found  himself  a 
prisoner  in  his  own  rooms.  What  follows  is  best  told  in 
Johnson's  own  words,  as  reported  by  the  scrupulous  Boswell : 
"  I  received  one  morning  a  message  from  poor  Goldsmith  that 
he  was  in  great  distress,  and,  as  it  was  not  in  his  power  to 
come  to  me,  begging  that  I  would  come  to  him  as  soon  as 
possible.  I  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised  to  come  to  him 
directly.  I  accordingly  went  as  soon  as  I  was  drest,  and  found 
that  his  landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his  rent,  at  which  he 
was  in  a  violent  passion.  I  perceived  that  he  had  already 
changed  my  guinea,  and  had  got  a  bottle  of  Madeira  and  a 
glass  before  him.  I  put  the  cork  into  the  bottle,  desired  him 
to  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  of  the  means  by  which  he 
might  be  extricated.  He  then  told  me  that  he  had  a  novel 
ready  for  the  press,  which  he  produced  to  me.  I  looked  into 
it,  and  saw  its  merit ;  told  the  landlady  I  should  soon  return  ; 
and  having  gone  to  a  bookseller,  sold  it  for  sixty  pounds.  I 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH  xxiil 

brought  Goldsmith  the  money,  and  he  discharged  the  rent,  not 
without  rating  his  landlady  in  a  high  tone  for  having  used  him 
so  ill."     It  seems  clear  that  Johnson  did  not  bring  Goldsmith 
the  whole  of  the  sixty  pounds.     Probably  he  arranged  for  its  I 
sale  in  shares,  for  one  or  two  of  which  Newbury  very  likel^j^ 
paid  at  "the  moment.     This  would  account  for  the  subsequent  " 
sale  of  a  share  to  Collins,  who,  mnrp  tliiyj^JJ^r^fijeajs-Jato,^, 
printed  the  first  edition  nf  thp.  atmy      The  reasons  for  jhis 
delay  in  publication  we  shall  speak  of  later. 

It  is  amusing  to  note  that  shortly  after  this  clash  over  the 
business  of  rent,  Goldsmith  contrived  to  rid  himself  entirely,  for 
the  time,  of  the  landlady  question.  He  entered  into  an  agree- 
ment with  Francis  Newbury  by  which  he  was  to  receive  board 
and  lodgmg^nd  whatever  else  his  services  might  be  worth  — 
after  the  payment  of  rent.  On  his  employer's  adviceJie-«*eve€L^ 
to  retired  Tplingtfm  The  landlady  was  a  relative  of  Newbury's. 
"  Tne  bookseller,  indeed,"  says  Dobson,  "was  paymasteFtn  the 
business,  deducting  with  businesslike  regularity  the  amount  for 
Goldsmith's  keep  and  incidental  expenses,  from  the  account  cur- 
rent between  the  poet  and  himself."  Under  this  sort  of  guardian- 
ship he  lived  for  two  years  and  more,  making  copy  of  all  sorts 
for  Newbury,  and  in  the  main  living  up  to  his  part  of  the  agree- 
ment. But  during  this  period  he  had  other  work  in  hand,  not 
called  for  in  Newbury's  contract.  It  was  at  Islington  that  The 
Traveller,  which  he  had  conceived  in  1755  during  his  tramp  in 
Europe,  and  upon  which  he  had  worked  at  intervals  subsequently, 
received  its  finishing  touches.  In  1764  the  poem  was  published, 
and  almost  at  once  gave  its  author  a  high  place  as  a  poet  in  the 
critical  estimate  of  the  day.  Several  editions  were  run  through 
rapidly.  Interest  was  revived  in  his  former  work,  and  an,  offer 
came  from  the  booksellers  for  a  volume  of  selections  from  his 
essays,  which  was  soon  prepared  and  printed.  A  more  impor- 
tant employment  of  the  next  two  years  was  tlm-completion  of 
The  Vicar  of  WakefieM.  When  Johnson  arranged  for  its  sale  m 


XXIV  INTRODUCTION 

1762,  it  was  promised  that  it  should  make  up  two  volumes,  duo- 
decimo. From  internal  evidence  we  can  see  that  in  its  original 
form  the  story  was  far  too  short  to  meet  the  bookseller's  require- 
ment. Its  publication  was  delayed,  therefore,  until  it  should 
be  expanded  to  the  necessary  bulk.  The  author,  who  had  re- 
ceived his  money,  and  was  busy  in  other  matters,  let  the  story 
lie  for  two  or  three  years,  and  at  last,  very  likely  under  press- 
ure from  the  bookseller,  hurriedly  padded  it  with  whatever 
material  he  could  command,  and  got  rid  of  it  It  was  probably 
Goldsmith's  fault,  then,  rather  than  Newbury's,  that  the  book 
was  not  published,  in  its  two  volumes  duodecimo,  till  March, 
1766,  something  like  three  years  and  a  half  after  its  sale  by 
Johnson. 

The  critics  seem  to  have  had  nothing  to  say  of  the  story;  in- 
deed, one  could  hardly  imagine  a  work  more  unlike  the  novels 
yjth  which  they  were  accustomed  to  deal.  But  the  public  was 
ja^'at^a  loss.  Two  other  editions  were  called  for  before  the 
the  year^  Goldsmith's  reputation  was  immediately  and 
greatly  increased  by  his  book,  but  the  £60  was  all  that  he  ever 
received  for  it;  the  drudgery  had  to  go  on.  He  had  again 
taken  elegant  lodgings,  and  stocked  himself  with  fine  clothes. 
In  the  hope,  perhaps,  of  escaping  the  toils  of  the  booksellers, 
he  made  a  second  and  final  attempt  at  doctoring,  and  failed; 
clearly,  only  task-work  of  the  familiar  sort  could  enable  him  to 
support  the  dignity  which  his  poem  and  story  had  given  him. 
One  more  attempt  was  to  be  made,  in  a  field  as  yet  untried. 
He  had  always  been  interested  in  the  stage,  but  as  yet,  unless  we 
except  the  luckless  tragedy,  had  not  written  for  it.  Now,  casting 
about  in  his  own  experience  for  a  comedy  subject,  he  as  usual 
chose  the  nearest,  himself.  The  Good-Natured  Man  was  writ- 
ten. Dr.  Johnson  furnished  a  prologue,  and  the  play  was  sub- 
mitted to  the  greatest  actor  and  manager  of  the  time,  David 
Garrick.  While  Garrick  did  not  refuse  the  comedy,  he  was  not 
enthusiastic.  A  coolness  resulted,  and  the  play  was  finally  pro- 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH  XXV 

duced  not  at  Drury  Lane,  but  at  Covent  Garden,  the  rival 
theatre.  In  the  interval  between  its  acceptance  and  production, 
the  author,  who  was  as  usual  in  pecuniary  straits,  was  offered  a 
salaried  position  as  political  writer.  Kightly  feeling  that  to  sell 
his  pen  to  a  political  party  was  quite  a  different  matter  from 
selling  it  to  a  bookseller,  he  refused.  In  January,  1768,  The 
Good-Natured  Man  was  brought  out.  It  was  received,  on  the 
whole,  not  unfavorably,  and  the  £500  which  came  to  its  author 
once  more  set  him  on  his  feet.  Only  for  the  moment,  however ; 
with  characteristic  short-sightedness,  he  spent  four-fifths  of  this 
windfall  in  the  purchase  of  new  and  fine  chambers  in  the  Middle 
Temple,  and  with  much  entertaining  and  many  gorgeous  clothes 
the  rest  was  not  long  about  him.  He  fell  in  debt,  and  was  again 
an  easy  prey  to  the  booksellers.  A  History  of  Rome,  a  History 
of  Animated  Nature  (about  which  he  knew  nothing),  and  other 
similar  performances  occupied  most  of  his  time  for  the  next  year 
or  two. 

In  the  meantime  he  had  been  polishing  and  repolishing  The 
Deserted  Village,  which  had  been  begun  at  least  two  years 
before.  It  was  published  in  May,  1770.  Whether  sweet 
Auburn  is  an  English  or  an  Irish  village ;  whether  this  or  that 
person  mentioned  is  positively  of  this  or  that  relationship  to 
the  author;  whether  the  political  theory  of  the  poem  is  sound 
or  not :  these  are  unimportant  questions  to  the  mass  of  its 
readers.  Its  tenderness,  its  easy  grace,  its  humor,  place  it 
among  the  few  English  poems  which  do  not  depend  upon  critics 
for  their  constituency:  "Johnson,"  says  Dobson,  "thought  it 
.inferior  to  The  Traveller,  probably  because  it  was  less  didactic ; 
we,  on  the  contrary,  prefer  it,  because,  with  less  obtrusion  of 
moral,  it  presents  in  larger  measure  those  qualities  of  chastened 
sympathy  and  descriptive  grace  which  are  Goldsmith  at  his 
best.7'  I  Johnson  had  contributed  some  lines  both  to  The  Trav- 
eller and  to  The  Deserted  Village.  Nor  was  his  friendship 
limited  to  mere  literary  offices.  As  early  as  1764  he  had 


XXVI  INTRODUCTION 

caused  Goldsmith  to  be  included  in  the  original  membership  of 
"  The  Club,"  that  famous  company  which  was  later  known  as 
"  The  Literary  Club,"  but  which  never  needed  to  borrow  dig- 
nity of  an  adjective.  Burke,  Reynolds,  Johnson,  and  Gold- 
smith were,  as  we  know  now,  the  most  noteworthy  of  its  mem- 
bers ;  but  then,  the  six  or  eight  others  little  dreamed  that  they 
were  to  owe  the  preservation  of  their  names  partly  to  the  fact 
of  their  association  with  the  unimposing  Irish  scribbler,  whom 
they  were  willing  to  tolerate  but  not  to  respect.  By  1770, 
Goldsmith  had  become  a  person  of  some  social  consideration  in 
London,  had  made  many  acquaintances,  and  figured  as  some- 
thing of  a  lion  in  certain  middle-class  circles.  Everybody  liked 
him,  but  still  with  a  rebate  of  condescension.  Even  at  the 
Club,  where  his  literary  standing  was  now  placed  beyond  ques- 
tion, he  continued  to  be  misunderstood.  His  anxiety  to  please 
was  taken  for  officiousness  ;  his  busy  ways  and  eager  speech  were 
found  to  be  lacking  in  dignity ;  and  his  humorous  sallies  of  self- 
flattery,  which  were  merely  his  own  peculiar  method  of  self- 
depreciation,  were  supposed  to  indicate  intolerable  conceit.  The 
fact  is,  his  humor  was  too  subtle  for  the  broad  taste  of  his  time ; 
one  can  easily  imagine  his  continual  despair  in  the  presence  of 
so  much  thick-headed  toleration  on  the  part  of  inferior  minds. 

In  the  summer  of  1770  Goldsmith  made  a  little  journey 
upon  the  Continent,  but  in  spite  of  agreeable  companionship 
and  the  ordinary  comforts  of  travelling,  he  regretted  the  simple 
charm  of  his  first  vagabond  experience  abroad.  It  is  a  pathetic 
fact  that  this  man  who  lived,  to  all  appearances,  so  heedlessly 
for  the  pleasure  of  the  present,  should  have  found  his  moments 
of  real  happiness  in  dreaming  of  an  impossible  future  and  of  an 
equally  impossible  past. 

Various  pieces  of  task-work  occupied  the  next  two  years,  the 
most  important  of  them  a  Life  of  Bolinybroke  and  a  History  of 
England;  these  books  are,  like  all  Goldsmith's  work  of  the  sort, 
readable,  if  superficial.  But  in  the  intervals  of  his  drudgery 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH  xxvii 

he  was  busy  with  a  far  more  significant  task,  —  the  production 
of  a  new  comedy.  This  play,  like  his  first,  was  based  on  his 
personal  experience.  Not  only  was  the  mistake  on  which  the 
plot  is  founded  an  incident  of  his  own  boyhood :  he  is 
young  Marlow,  glib  with  the  barmaids,  but  dumb  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  lady ;  he  is  Tony  Lumpkin,  king  of  the  tavern,  colt- 
ish and  mischievous,  but  at  heart  guileless  and  kind.  The  play 
was  finished  and  placed  in  the  hands  of  Colman  of  Covent 
Garden,  in  1772.  Through  the  lukewarmness  of  the  manager, 
and  the  refractoriness  of  his  company,  She  Stoops  to  Conquer 
was  not  produced  till  March,  1773,  and  then  with  an  inferior 
cast.  It  was,  however,  so  far  superior  to  The  Good-Natured 
Man  that  the  public  could  not  fail  to  see  something  of  its 
merit.  They  did  not  recognize  it  as  one  of  the  few  great  Eng- 
lish comedies  outside  of  Shakespeare,  but  they  went  to  see  it, 
and  found  it  amusing.  It  was  at  once  assailed  by  the  adher- 
ents of  the  conventional  school  of  the  period,  the  "  sentimental 
comedy."  But  the  vigor  and  rollicking  humor  of  the  little 
work  placed  it  beyond  detraction.  The  play  was  a  success. 

And  it  was  Goldsmith's  last  success.  He  had  now  achieved 
merit  of  a  high  order  in  four  separate  types  of  pure  literature 
—  the  light  essay,  poetry,  fiction,  and  the  drama.  His  work 
was  done.  The  story  of  his  last  days  is  a  sad  one;  a  story  of 
steadily  increasing  debt,  of  failing  courage,  and  of  final  sur- 
render. Macaulay  estimates  that  during  the  last  seven  years 
of  his  life,  Goldsmith  received  the  equivalent  of  .£800  in- 
come. The  inference  is  obvious :  Goldsmith  died  of  shiftless- 
ness.  Toward  the  close  of  March,  1774,  a  local  disturbance  of  no 
apparent  seriousness  found  him  in  such  weak  nervous  condition  as 
to  make  him  an  easy  victim.  His  general  symptoms  could  not 
account  for  his  failure  to  rally ;  being  questioned,  he  admitted 
to  his  physician  that  his  mind  was  not  at  ease.  On  April  4, 
1774,  the  end  came.  His  friend  Samuel  Johnson  wrote  a 
grand  Latin  epitaph,  which  still  stands  in  Westminster  Abbey. 


xxviii  %      INTRODUCTION 

But  he  spoke  a  better  one :  "  Let  not  his  frailties  be  remem- 
bered :  he  was  a  very  great  man." 

So  much,  or  so  little,  for  the  story  of  his  life.  Of  the  thou- 
sand kind  acts  of  that  life,  to  his  brother,  to  distant  kinsmen,  to 
poor  outcasts  whose  only  claim  upon  his  friendship  was  their 
friendlessness,  nothing  has  been  said.  He  died  .£2000  in  debt 
to  certain  forgotten  British  creditors ;  but  the  debt  we  owe  him 
is  not  to  be  reckoned  in  pounds  sterling.  We  cherish  him,  as 
we  quote  him,  without  knowing  it.  His  life  was  imperfect,  his 
work  was  scant ;  but  his  eminence  as  an  artist  has  made  him  a 
part  of  our  treasured  literary  inheritance,  as  his  loving  spirit 
has  made  him  a  part  of  our  lives. 


THE   VIOAR   OF   WAKEFIELD 

THE  English  novel  was  barely  a  quarter  of  a  century  old 
when  Goldsmith  wrote  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Yet  within 
that  time  three  recognized  masters  of  fiction,  Richardson,  Field- 
ing, and  Smollett,  had  begun  and  practically  completed  their 
work.  These  men  differed  greatly  from  one  another;  and 
Goldsmith  owed  nothing  to  any  of  them,  except  the  settled 
willingness  on  the  part  of  the  public  to  read  extended  prose 
narrative.  Whether,  indeed,  this  predisposition  of  the  public  and 
the  bookseller  was  of  service  to  Goldsmith's  art  as  well  as  to 
his  pocket,  is  something  of  a  question.  (For  Goldsmith  was 
not  by  nature  a  story-teller;  indeed,  TheT^icar  of  Wakefield 
can  hardly  be  called  a  story,  if  we  make  serious  use  of  that 
rather  vague  word.  It  is  a  connected  series  of  sketches  spun 
out  into  a  narrative,  mainly,  we  have  reason  to  think,  for  the 
purpose  of  making  the  work  more  easily  salable  (see  Introduc- 
tion, p.  xxiii).  If  Goldsmith  had  lived  a  half-century  earlier,  this 
expedient  would  not  have  been  necessary.  It  is  to  that  period 
that  we  must  turn  to  find  the  prototype  of  what  is  most 


THE    VICAR    OF    WAKE  FIELD  XXIX 

valuable  in  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  to  the  period  of  The  Taller, 
The  Spectator,  and  The  Guardian.  The  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley 
papers  in  The  Spectator  are  more  nearly  akin  to  what  might 
then  have  been  merely  the  Primrose  papers,  than  anything 
else  in  our  literature.  Goldsmith's  Beau  Tibbs  series  in  The 
Citizen  of  the  World  would  attest  his  legitimate  descent  from 
Addison  and  Steele,  if  any  other  evidence  than  The  Vicar  were 
needed  It  is  clear  that  the  author  attempted  in  this  tale  to 
do  two  things  which  were,  for  him,  incongruous :  to  make  a 
group-portrait,  and  to  tell  a  story.  Whatever  is  best  in  the 
product  of  this  double  effort  is  connected  with  the  portraiture ; 
whatever  is  unreal  and  meretricious  is  the  result  of  his  attempt 
at  romantic  narrative.  <  ^ 

JThe  plot  of  the  story  is  artificial  and  rnp.lndra.maticj  The 
villain"  is  a"  bold  bad  man,  without  a  redeeming  feature  except 
good  looks  and  assured  manners.  He  seduces  one  of  the  Vicar's 
daughters,  and  tries  to  carry  off  the  other.  He  rids  himself  of 
an  undesirable  rival  by  procuring  him  a  commission  in  a  regi- 
ment detailed  for  foreign  service  ;  advances  the  necessary  money 
for  the  purchase  of  the  lieutenancy;  and  having  graciously 
accepted  the  Vicar's  bond  therefor,  makes  use  of  it  later  to  clap 
him  into  prison.  His  uncle,  who  is  perfectly  virtuous,  and  at 
the  same  time  perfectly  aware  of  the  Squire's  character,  does 
not  interfere  between  him  and  his  victim.  That  Olivia's  life 
escapes  being  hopelessly  ruined  is  due,  not  to  a  proper  inter- 
position by  Sir  William,  but  to  the  chance  trick  of  the  low 
scamp  Jenkinson.  The  denouement  of  the  story  is  almost 
farcical.  The  admired  Sir  William  carries  the  jest  at  his  little 
Sophia's  expense  well  beyond  the  point  of  cruelty,  and  only 
after  having  insulted  her  sufficiently  to  satisfy  his  sense  of 
humor,  condescendingly  permits  her  to  become  Lady  Thornhill. 
The  Vicar's  fortune  is  miraculously  restored ;  and  the  pre- 
posterous Mr.  Wilmot  becomes  the  complaisant  father-in-law  of 
a  Primrose.  And,  most  surprising  circumstance  of  all,  matters 


XXX  INTRODUCTION 

are  understood  to  be  by  way  of  patching  up  between  Olivia  and 
the  infamous  Squire. 

But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  though  few  readers  can  fail  to  see 
the  absurdity  of  these  events,  few  would  think  of  finding  offense 
in  them.  The  ploti^;  too  shadowy  *n  hp  tfilrrn  nrrlmHy  The 
more  tragic  porttnTTof  it  is  evidently  unreal  to  the  Vicar  him- 
self. After  his  declamatory  burst  of  passion  on  first  learning 
of  Olivia's  betrayal,  he  sets  out  in  search  of  her.  He  lies  ill 
at  an  inn  for  a  matter  of  three  weeks,  during  which  time  pre- 
sumably Olivia's  position  has  not  improved ;  but  on  his  recovery 
the  good  man  finds  time  to  enjoy  a  week  at  the  house  of  a 
chance  acquaintance.  Nor  do  we  greatly  wonder,  ^or  this 
tale,  in  spite  of  its  conscious  apparatus  of  plot,  is  an  idyll, 
rather  than  a  romance  or  a  study  of  real  life.  When 
Sophia  falls  into  a  rapid  torrent  and  is  on  the  point  of  drowning, 
the  story-teller  informs  us  of  it  without  excitement  or  raising 
of  the  voice.  There  is  no  suggestion  of  "  chores  "  on  the  Vicar's 
farm.  It  is  rural  life  conventionalized  ;  we  hear  no  more  than 
that  "  My  son  and  I  went  to  pursue  our  usual  industry  abroad." 
What  could  be  more  agreeable  ! 

We  are  not  deeply  incensed,  then,  at  the  Squire's  misdemeanors, 

|  because,  as  a  villain,  he  has  no  right  to  be  virtuous.     We  may 

f  hiss  him,  as  the  gallery  hisses  the  villain  of  stage  melodrama ; 

but  it  is  a  half-compliment  —  a  confession  that  he  is  doing  his 

duty.     Something  of  our  toleration  of  this  particular  villain  is 

•"doubtless  due  to  the  Vicar's  own  attitude.      Theoretically  he 

condemns  young  Thornhill ;  actually,  he  does  not  find  him  too 

disreputable,  in  view  of  his  youth,  good  looks,  and  wealth,  to 

be  admitted  as  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  vicarage.     And  upon 

the  two  girls  the  only  effect  of  their  enlightenment  as  to  his 

character  is  to  fill  them  with  the  ambition  to  make  a  genuine 

conquest  of  the  young  rake.      The  whole  question  of  honor 

between  the  sexes  evidently  suggests  itself  to  the  Vicar,  and  to 

Goldsmith,  as  a  question  of  manners   rather  than  of  morals. 


THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD  xxxi 

This  is  the  conventional  attitude  of  the  eighteenth  century; 
and  Goldsmith  was  not  a  reformer :  he  was  content  to  take  life 
pretty  much  as  he  found  it. 

But  even  if  this  had  not  been  so,  he  might  easily  have  found 
it  natural  in  this  idyllic  tale  to  ignore  the  tragic  possibilities  of 
the  narrative.  Shakespeare  in  the  idyllic  comedy  As  You  Like 
It  treats  lightly  the  desperate  villanies  of  Oliver  and  Frederick, 
that  the  easy-going  sylvan  romance  may  lose  nothing  of  its 
delicate  glamour.  The  terribly  tragic  problem  of  ingratitude 
and  hatred  between  blood-kin  which  in  Lear  receives  such 
searching  study,  is  in  As  You  Like  It  only  a  situation,  a  back- 
ground against  which  the  lovely  figures  of  the  idyll  show  with 
a  more  engaging  grace.  As  is  true  of  the  play,  the  most 
charming  scenes  in  The  Vicar  are  those  which  are  most  purely 
idyllic.  It  is  the  picture  of  the  Primrose  family  in  which  we 
delight.  In  the  first  half  of  the  tale  there  is  little  to  distract 
us  from  our  simple  enjoyment  of  this  good  company.  After 
Olivia's  disappearance  the  melodramatic  element  becomes  so 
prominent  as  at  times  to  obscure  our  pleasure  in  this  group  of 
neighbors  (for  the  Flariiboroughs  must  not  be  left  out)  who 
are  at  once  so  whimsical  and  so  natural.  Four-fifths  of  the 
portraiture  —  that  is,  the  cream  of  the  book  —  is  certainly 
includecTlTrtfoe  first  seventeen  chapters.  With  the  idyllic  grace 
and  sample  cha£flua£.  oharaGt^rizatipn  which  belong  to  this  first 
part  of  the  tale,  is  mingled  not,  *^35?n(4  j'nimi'iiuik  MAi.im  -TTnw 
inimitably  the  fancy-portrait  fad  of  the  last  ceniury  *is  touched 
off  in  the  great  Primrose  mytho-historical  group,  With  Alexander 
the  Great  in  a  queue  and  buckles,  that  matronly  Venus  with 
her  two  rawboned  cupids,  and  Diana  in  a  green  Joseph.  How 
clearly,  again,  the  follies  and  vulgarities  of  the  fashionable  world 
are  set  forth  in  the  glib  harangues  of  the  Squire,  and  the  aston- 
ishing dialogue  between  those  arbiters  of  taste,  Lady  Blarney 
and  Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs. 

The  style  of  the  tale,  if  we  except  certain  passages  which 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

belong  to  the  didactic  habit  of  the  Vicar,  is  marked  by  the 
grace  and  simplicity  which  are  the  characteristics  of  all  of 
Goldsmith's  later  prose.  It  is  a  remarkable  fact,  and  in  itself 
a  proof  of  Goldsmith's  originality,  that  the  influence  of  Dr. 
Johnson,  one  of  his  best  friends  and  most  generous  critics, 
should  be  so  little  apparent  in  his  style.  At  a  time  when  it 
was  the  fashion  for  the  aspirant  to  literary  honors  to  imitate 
Johnson's  formal  and  Latinized  diction,  when  it  was  possible 
for  a  writer  like  Miss  Burney  deliberately  to  turn  from  the 
simple,  vigorous  prose  which  was  hers  by  nature  to  a  blood- 
less echo  of  the  great  dictator's  pomp,  —  it  is  a  wonder,  indeed, 
that  Goldsmith  should  have  preserved  his  independence.  Per- 
haps the  most  noteworthy  quality  of  this  style  is  its  subtlety. 
The  most  satisfying  passages  in  Goldsmith  owe  much  of  their 
charm  to  the  suggestiveness  and  restraint  of  his  expression.  We 
are  conscious  of  a  reserve  of  power  in  this  man,  who  would  rather 
half  say  a  good  thing  than  spoil  it  by  over-explicitness.  The 
Vicar  himself  has,  like  Dr.  Johnson,  two  styles  :  one  for  every- 
day use,  the  other  for  didactic  purposes.  /Whenever  he  grows 
conscious  of  himself  as  a  licensed  preacher,  his  sentences 
lengthen.  An  amusing  illustration  of  this  is  to  be  found  in 
his  two  reported  speeches  in  the  prison.  The  first  address  to 
the  prisoners,  for  which  the  Vicar  half  apologizes,  is  colloquial 
in  the  extreme :  "  Though  you  swore  twelve  thousand  oaths 
a  day,  it  would  not  put  one  penny  in  your  purse.  Then  what 
signifies  calling  every  moment  upon  the  devil,  and  courting 
his  friendship,  since  you  find  how  scurvily  he  uses  you  ?  He 
has  given  you  nothing  here,  you  find,  but  a  mouthful  of  oaths 
and  an  empty  belly ;  and,  by  the  best  accounts  I  have  of  him, 
he  will  give  you  nothing  that's  good  hereafter."  The  second  dis- 
course, upon  which  the  Vicar  evidently  prides  himself,  is  cast  in  a 
very  different  mould  :  "  Why  man  should  thus  feel  pain  ;  why 
our  wretchedness  should  be  requisite  in  the  formation  of  uni- 
versal felicity ;  why,  when  all  other  systems  are  made  perfect 


THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD  xxxiii 

by  the  perfection  of  their  subordinate  parts,  the  great  system 
should  require  for  its  perfection  parts  that  are  not  only  subor- 
dinate to  others,  but  imperfect  in  themselves  —  these  are  ques- 
tions that  can  never  be  explained." 

The  moral  truth  expressed  in  the  tale,  as  several  critics  have 
noted,  is  identical  with  that  of  the  Book  of  Job  :  the  triumph  of 
steadfast  virtue  and  piety  against  "the  slings  and  arrows  of  out-  \ 
rageous  fortune."     In  spite  of  some  minor  moral  obliquities  in     \ 
character  and  situation,  the  general  effect  of  the  story  is  one  of 
wholesomeness ;  it  rings  true,  for  its  keynote  is  love. 

Its  influence  has  been,  and  still  is,  very  great,  not  only  among 
English-speaking  peoples,  but  on  the  Continent.  Especially 
in  France  and  Germany  it  has  made  itself  felt.  To  his  early 
acquaintance  with  this  gentle  tale  Goethe  attributed  a  large 
share  in  the  formation  of  his  character.  It  would,  perhaps, 
be  hardly  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  no  other  English  work 
except  Shakespeare  has  been  more  widely  known  and  loved  by 
continental  readers  than  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  And  its 
power  is  not  likely  to  wane ;  it  is  the  sort  of  book  from  which, 
while  human  nature  remains  the  same,  the  race  cannot  grow 
away. 


THE   VICAE   OF   WAKEFIELD 


CHAPTER   I 

The  Description  of  the  Family  of  Wakefield,  in  which  a  kindred 
Likeness  prevails,  as  well  of  Minds  as  of  Persons 

I  WAS  ever  of  opinion,  that  the  honest  man  who  married 
and  brought  up  a  large  family  did  more  service  than  he  who 
continued  single,  and  only  talked  of  population.  From  this 
motive,  I  had  scarce  taken  orders0  a  year  before  I  began  to 
think  seriously  of  matrimony,  and  chose  my  wife,  as  she  did 
her  wedding-gown,  not  for  a  fine  glossy  surface,  but  for  such 
qualities  as  would  wear  well.  To  do  her  justice,  she  was  a 
good-natured  uojbable0.  woman  ;  and  as  for  breeding,  there  were 
few  country  ladies  who  could  show  more.  She  could  read  any 
English  book  without  much  spelling ;  but  for  pickling,  preserv- 
ing, and  cookery,  none  could  excel  her.  She  prided  herself 
also  upon  being  an  excellent  contriver  in  housekeeping ;  though 
I  could  never  find  that  we  grew  richer  with  all  her  contrivances. 

However,  we  loved  each  other  tenderly,  and  our  fondness  in- 
creased as  we  grew  old.  There  was,  in  fact,  nothing  that  could 
make  us  angry  with  the  world  or  each  other.  We  had  an  ele- 
gant house  situated  in  a  fine  country,  and  a  good  neighbourhood. 
The  year  was  spent  in  a  moral  °  or  rural  amusement,  in  visiting 
our  rich  neighbours,  and  relieving  such  as  were  poor.  We  had 
no  revolutions  to  fear,  no  fatigues  to  undergo;  all  our  adven- 

B  1 


2  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

tures  were  by  the  fireside,  and  all  our  migrations  from  the  blue 
bed  to  the  brown. 

As  we  lived  near  the  road,  we  often  had  the  traveller  or  stran- 
ger visit  us  to  taste  our  gooseberry  wine,  for  which  we  had  great 
reputation ;  and  I  profess,  with  the  veracity  of  an  historian, 
that  I  never  knew  one  of  them  find  fault  with  it.  Our  cousins, 
too,  even  to  the  fortieth  remove,  all  remembered  their  affinity,0 
without  any  help  from  the  herald's  office,0  and  came  very  fre- 
quently to  see  us.  Some  of  them  did  us  no  great  honour  by 
these  claims  of  kindred ;  as  we  had  the  blind,  the  maimed,  and 
the  halt  amongst  the  number.  However,  my  wife  always  insisted 
that,  as  they  were  the  same  flesh  and  blood,  they  should  sit 
with  us  at  the  same  table.  So  that,  if  we  had  not  very  rich, 
we  generally  had  very  happy  friends  about  us ;  for  this  remark 
will  hold  good  through  life,  that  the  poorer  the  guest,  the  better 
pleased  he  ever  is  with  being  treated ;  and  as  some  men  gaze 
with  admiration  at  the  colours  of  a  tulip,  or  the  wing  of  a  but- 
terfly, so  I  was,  by  nature,  an  admirer  of  happy  human  faces. 
However,  when  any  one  of  our  relations  was  found  to  be  a  per- 
son of  very  bad  character,  a  troublesome  guest,  or  one  we  de- 
sired to  get  rid  of,  upon  his  leaving  my  house  I  ever  took  care 
to  lend  him  a  riding-coat  or  a  pair  of  boots,  or  sometimes  an  horse 
of  small  value,  and  I  always  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  he 
never  came  back  to  return  them.  By  this  the  house  was  cleared 
of  such  as  we  did  not  like ;  but  never  was  the  family  of  Wakefield 
known  to  turn  the  traveller  or  the  poor  dependant  out  of  doors. 

Thus  we  lived  several  years  in  a  state  of  much  happiness ; 
not  but  that  we  sometimes  had  those  little  rubs  which  Provi- 
dence sends  to  enhance  the  value  of  its  favours.  My  orchard 
was  often  robbed  by  schoolboys,  and  my  wife's  custards  plun- 
dered by  the  cats  or  the  children.  The  Squire  would  some- 
times fall  asleep  in  the  most  pathetic  parts  of  my  sermon,  or 
his  lady  return  my  wife's  civilities  at  church  with  a  mutilated 
curtsey.  But  we  soon  got  over  the  uneasiness  caused  by  such 


DESCRIPTION    OF    THE   FAMILY  3 

accidents,  and  usually  in  three  or  four  days  began  to  wonder 
how  they  vexed  us. 

My  children,  the  offspring  of  temperance,  as  they  were  edu- 
cated without  softness,  so  they  were  at  once  well-formed  and 
healthy ;  my  sons  hardy  and  active,  my  daughters  beautiful 
and  blooming.  When  I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  little  circle, 
which  promised  to  be  the  supports  of  my  declining  age,  I  could 
not  avoid  repeating  the  famous  story  of  Count  Abensberg,  who, 
in  Henry  the  Second's  progress  through  Germany,  while  other 
courtiers  came  with  their  treasures,  brought  his  thirty-two  chil- 
dren, and  presented  them  to  his  sovereign  as  the  most  valuable 
offering  he  had  to  bestow.  In  this  manner,  though  I  had  but 
six,  I  considered  them  as  a  very  valuable  present  made  to  my 
country,  and  consequently  looked  upon  it  as  my  debtor.  Our 
eldest  son  was  named  George,  after  his  uncle,  who  left  us  ten 
thousand  pounds.  Our  second  child,  a  girl,  I  intended  to  call 
after  her  aunt  Grissel ;  but  my  wife,  who  during  her  pregnancy 
had  been  reading  romances,  insisted  on  her  being  called  Olivia. 
In  less  than  another  year  we  had  another  daughter,  and  now  I 
was  determined  that  Grissel  should  be  her  name ;  but  a  rich 
relation  taking  a  fancy  to  stand  godmother,  the  girl  was,  by 
her  directions,  called  Sophia ;  so  that  we  had  two  romantiepj 
names  in  the  family  ;  but  I  solemnly  protest  I  had  no  hand  in/ 
it.  Moses  was  our  next,  and,  after  an  interval  of  twelve  years, 
we  had  two  sons  more. 

It  would  be  fruitless  to  deny  exultation  when  I  saw  my  little 
ones  about  me  ;  but  the  vanity  and  the  satisfaction  of  my  wife 
were  even  greater  than  mine.  When  our  visitors  would  say, 
"  Well,  upon  my  word,  Mrs.  Primrose,  you  have  the  finest 
children  in  the  country." —  "Ay,  neighbour,"  she  would  answer, 
"  they  are  as  heaven  made  them  —  handsome  enough,  if  they 
be  good  enough  ;  for  handsome  is  that  handsome  does."  And 
then  she  would  bid  the  girls  hold  up  their  heads  ;  who,  to  con- 
ceal nothing,  were  certainly  very  handsome.  Mere  outside  is  so 


4  THE   VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 

very  trifling  a  circumstance  with  me,  that  I  should  scarce  have 
remembered  to  mention  it,  had  it  not  been  a  general  topic  of 
conversation  in  the  country.  Olivia,  now  about  eighteen,  had 
that  luxuriancy  of  beauty0  with  which  painters  generally  draw 
Hebe ;  open,  sprightly,  and  commanding.  Sophia's  features 
were  not  so  striking  at  first,  but  often  did  more  certain  execu- 
tion ;  for  they  were  soft,  modest,  and  alluring.  The  one  van- 
quished by  a  single  blow,  the  other  by  efforts  successfully 
repeated. 

The  temper  of  a  woman  is  generally  formed  from  the  turn  of 
her  features  :  at  least  it  was  so  with  my  daughters.  Olivia 
wished  for  many  lovers ;  Sophia  to  secure  one.  Olivia  was 
often  affected,  from  too  great  a  desire  to  please ;  Sophia  even 
repressed  excellence,  from  her  fears  to  offend.  The  one  enter- 
tained me  with  her  vivacity  when  I  was  gay,  the  other  with 
her  sense  when  I  was  serious.  But  these  qualities  were  never 
carried  to  excess  in  either,  and  I  have  often  seen  them  exchange 
characters  for  a  whole  day  together.  A  suit  of  mourning  has 
transformed  my  coquette  into  a  prude,  and  a  new  set  of  ribands 
has  given  her  younger  sister  more  than  natural  vivacity.  My 
eldest  son  George  was  bred  at  Oxford,  as  I  intended  him  for  one 
of  the  learned  professions.  My  second  boy  Moses,  whom  I 
designed  for  business,  received  a  sort  of  miscellaneous  education 
at  home.  But  it  is  needless  to  attempt  describing  the  particular 
characters  of  young  people  that  had  seen  but  very  little  of  the 
world.  In  short,  a  family  likeness  prevailed  through  all,  and, 
properly  speaking,  they  had  but  one  character  —  that  of  being 
all  equally  generous,  credulous,  simple,  and  inoffensive. 


FAMILY   MISFORTUNES 


CHAPTER   II 

Family  Misfortunes.     The  Loss  of  Fortune  only  serves  to  increase 
the  Pride  of  the  Worthy 

THE  temporal  concerns  of  our  family  were  chiefly  committed 
to  my  wife's  management ;  as  to  the  spiritual,  I  took  them 
entirely  under  my  own  direction.  The  profits  of  my  living,0 
which  amounted  to  but  thirty-five  pounds  a  year,  I  made  over 
to  the  orphans  and  widows  of  the  clergy  of  our  diocese ;  for, 
having  a  fortune  of  my  own,  I  was  careless  of  temporalities, 
and  felt  a  secret  pleasure  in  doing  my  duty  without  reward,  I 
also  set  a  resolution  of  keeping  no  curate,  and  of  being  ac- 
quainted with  every  man  in  the  parish,  exhorting  the  married 
men  to  temperance,  and  the  bachelors  to  matrimony ;  so  that 
in  a  few  years  it  was  a  common  saying  that  there  were  three 
strange  wants  at  Wakefield  —  a  parson  wanting  pride,  young 
men  wanting  wives,  and  alehouses  wanting  customers. 

Matrimony  was  always  one  of  my  favourite  topics,  and  I  wrote 
several  sermons  to  prove  its  happiness :  but  there  was  a  pecul- 
iar tenet  which  I  made  a  point  of  supporting ;  for  I  maintained 
with  Whiston,0  that  it  was  unlawful  for  a  priest  of  the  Church 
of  England,  after  the  death  of  his  first  wife,  to  take  a  second ; 
or,  to  express  it  in  one  word,  I  valued  myself  upon  being  a 
strict  monogamist.0 

I  was  early  initiated  into  this  important  dispute,  on  which 
so  many  laborious  volumes  have  been  written.  I  published 
some  tracts  upon  the  subject  myself,  which,  as  they  never  sold, 
I  have  the  consolation  of  thinking  were  read  only  by  the  happy 
few.0  Some  of  my  friends  called  this  my  weak  side ;  but,  alas ! 
they  had  not,  like  me,  made  it  the  subject  of  long  contempla- 
tion. The  more  I  reflected  upon  it,  the  more  important  it  ap- 
peared. I  even  went  a  step  beyond  Whiston  in  displaying  my 


6  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

principles ;  as  he  had  engraven  upon  his  wife's  tomb  that  she 
was  the  only  wife  of  William  Whiston,  so  I  wrote  a  similar 
epitaph  for  my  wife,  though  still  living,  in  which  I  extolled 
her  prudence,  economy,  and  obedience  till  death ;  and  having 
got  it  copied  fair,  with  an  elegant  frame,  it  was  placed  over  the 
chimney-piece,  where  it  answered  several  very  useful  purposes : 
it  admonished  my  wife  of  her  duty  to  me,  and  my  fidelity  to 
her;  it  inspired  her  with  a  passion  for  fame,  and  constantly 
put  her  in  mind  of  her  end. 

It  was  thus,  perhaps,  from  hearing  marriage  so  often  recom- 
mended, that  my  eldest  son,  just  upon  leaving  college,  fixed  his 
affections  upon  the  daughter  of  a  neighbouring  clergyman,  who 
was  a  dignitary  in  the  Church,  and  in  circumstances  to  give  her 
a  large  fortune.  But  fortune  was  her  smallest  accomplishment. 
Miss  Arabella  Wilmot  was  allowed  by  all  (except  my  two 
daughters)  to  be  completely  pretty.  Her  youth,  health,  and 
innocence  were  still  heightened  by  a  complexion  so  transparent, 
and  such  a  happy  sensibility  of  look,  as  even  age  could  not 
gaze  on  with  indifference.  As  Mr.  Wilmot  knew  that  I  could 
make  a  very  handsome  settlement  on  my  son,  he  was  not  averse 
to  the  match ;  so  both  families  lived  together  in  all  that  har- 
mony which  generally  precedes  an  expected  alliance.  Being 
convinced,  by  experience,  that  the  days  of  courtship  are  the 
most  happy  of  our  lives,  I  was  willing  enough  to  lengthen  the 
period ;  and  the  various  amusements  which  the  young  couple 
every  day  shared  in  each  other's  company  seemed  to  increase 
their  passion.  We  were  generally  awaked  in  the  morning  by 
music,  and  on  fine  days  rode  a-hunting.  The  hours  between 
breakfast  and  dinner  the  ladies  devoted  to  dress  and  study; 
they  usually  read  a  page,  and  then  gazed  at  themselves  in  the 
glass,  which,  even  philosophers  might  own,  often  presented  the 
page  of  greatest  beauty.  At  dinner  my  wife  took  the  lead ; 
for,  as  she  always  insisted  upon  carving  everything  herself,  it 
being  her  mother's  way,  she  gave  us  upon  these  occasions  the 


FAMILY  MISFORTUNES  7 

history  of  every  dish.  When  we  had  dined,  to  prevent  the 
ladies  leaving  us,  I  generally  ordered  the  table  to  be  removed ; 
and  sometimes,  with  the  music-master's  assistance,  the  girls 
would  give  us  a  very  agreeable  concert.  Walking  out,  drink- 
ing tea,  country-dances,0  and  forfeits,  shortened  the  rest  of  the 
day,  without  the  assistance  of  cards,  as  I  hated  all  manner  of 
gaming,  except  backgammon,0  at  which  my  old  friend  and  I 
sometimes  took  a  twopenny  hit.  Nor  can  I  here  pass  over  an 
ominous  circumstance  that  happened  the  last  time  we  played 
together.  I  only  wanted  to  fling  a  quatre,  and  yet  I  threw 
deuce  ace  five  times  running. 

Some  months  were  elapsed  in  this  manner,  till  at  last  it  was 
thought  convenient  to  fix  a  day  for  the  nuptials  of  the  young 
couple,  who  seemed  earnestly  to  desire  it.  During  the  prepara- 
tions for  the  wedding,  I  need  not  describe  the  busy  importance 
of  my  wife,  nor  the  sly  looks  of  my  daughters ;  in  fact,  my  at- 
tention was  fixed  on  another  object  —  the  completing  a  tract, 
which  I  intended  shortly  to  publish,  in  defence  of  my  favourite 
principle.  As  I  looked  upon  this  as  a  masterpiece,  both  for 
argument  and  style,  I  could  not,  in  the  pride  of  my  heart,  avoid 
showing  it  to  my  old  friend  Mr.  Wilmot,  as  I  made  no  doubt  of 
receiving  his  approbation :  but  not  till  too  late  I  discovered  that 
he  was  most  violently  attached  to  the  contrary  opinion,  and 
with  good  reason ;  for  he  was  at  that  time  actually  courting  a 
fourth  wife.  This,  as  may  be  expected,  produced  a  dispute, 
attended  with  some  acrimony,  which  threatened  to  interrupt 
our  intended  alliance ;  but  on  the  day  before  that  appointed 
for  the  ceremony,  we  agreed  to  discuss  the  subject  at  large. 

It  was  managed  with  proper  spirit  on  both  sides.  He 
asserted  that  I  was  heterodox ;  I  retorted  the  charge  :  he 
replied,  and  I  rejoined.  In  the  meantime,  while  the  con- 
troversy was  hottest,  I  was  called  out  by  one  of  my  relations, 
who,  with  a  face  of  concern,  advised  me  to  give  up  the  dispute, 
at  least  till  my  son's  wedding  was  over.  "  How,"  cried  I, 


8  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

"relinquish  the  cause  of  truth,  and  let  him  be  a  husband, 
already  driven  to  the  very  verge  of  absurdity  1  You  might  as 
well  advise  me  to  give  up  my  fortune  as  my  argument."  — 
"Your  fortune,"  returned  my  friend,  "I  am  now  sorry  to 
inform  you,  is  almost  nothing.  The  merchant  in  town,  in 
whose  hands  your  money  was  lodged,  has  gone  off,  to  avoid 
a  statute  of  bankruptcy,  and  is  thought  not  to  have  left  a 
shilling  in  the  pound.  I  was  unwilling  to  shock  you  or  the 
family  with  the  account  till  after  the  wedding  :  but  now  it  may 
serve  to  moderate  your  warmth  in  the  argument ;  for,  I  suppose 
your  own  prudence  will  enforce  the  necessity  of  dissembling,  at 
least  till  your  son  has  the  young  lady's  fortune  secure."  — 
"Well,"  returned  I,  "if  what  you  tell  me  be  true,  and  if  I  am 
to  be  a  beggar,  it  shall  never  make  me  a  rascal,  or  induce  me 
to  disavow  my  principles.  I'll  go  this  moment  and  inform  the 
company  of  my  circumstances;  and,  as  for  the  argument,  I 
even  here  retract  my  former  concessions  in  the  old  gentleman's 
favour,  nor  will  allow  him  now  to  be  a  husband  in  any  sense  of 
the  expression." 

It  would  be  endless  to  describe  the  different  sensations  of 
both  families  when  I  divulged  the  news  of  our  misfortune ;  but 
what  others  felt  was  slight  to  what  the  lovers  appeared  to 
endure.  Mr.  Wilmot,  who  seemed  before  sufficiently  inclined 
to  break  off  the  match,  was  by  this  blow  soon  determined  :  one 
virtue  he  had  in  perfection,  which  was  prudence,  too  often  the 
only  one  that  is  left  us  at  seventy-two. 

CHAPTER   III 

A  Migration.     The  Fortunate  Circumstances  of  our  Lives  are  gen- 
erally found  at  last  to  le  of  our  own  procuring 

THE  only  hope  of  my  family  now  was,  that  the  report  of  our 
misfortune  might  be  malicious  or  premature  ;  but  a  letter  from 


A    MIGRATION  9 

my  agent  in  town  soon  came,  with  a  confirmation  of  every  par- 
ticular. The  loss  of  fortune  to  myself  alone  would  have  been 
trifling ;  the  only  uneasiness  I  felt  was  for  my  family,  who  were 
to  be  humbled  without  an  education  to  render  them  callous  to 
contempt. 

Near  a  fortnight  had  passed  before  I  attempted  to  restrain 
their  affliction;  for  premature  consolation  is  but  the  remem- 
brancer 'of  sorrow.  During  this  interval  my  thoughts  were 
employed  on  some  future  means  of  supporting  them ;  and  at 
last  a  small  cure  of  fifteen  pounds  a  year  was  offered  me  in  a 
distant  neighbourhood,  where  I  could  still  enjoy  my  principles 
without  molestation.  With  this  proposal  I  joyfully  closed, 
having  determined  to  increase  my  salary  by  managing  a  little 
farm.0 

Having  taken  this  resolution,  my  next  care  was  to  get 
together  the  wrecks  of  my  fortune;  and,  all  debts  collected 
and  paid,  out  of  fourteen  thousand  pounds  we  had  but  four 
hundred  remaining.  My  chief  attention,  therefore,  was  now  to 
bring  down  the  pride  of  my  family  to  their  circumstances ;  for 
'  I  well  knew  that  aspiring  beggary  is  wretchedness  itself.  "  You 
cannot  be  ignorant,0  my  children,"  cried  I,  "  that  no  prudence 
of  ours  could  have  prevented  our  late  misfortune ;  but  prudence 
may  do  much  in  disappointing  its  effects.  We  are  now  poor, 
my  fondlings,  and  wisdom  bids  us  conform  to  our  humble  situa- 
tion. Let  us  then,  without  repining,  give  up  those  splendours 
with  which  numbers  are  wretched,  and  seek  in  humbler  circum- 
stances that  peace  with  which  all  may  be  happy.  The  poor 
live  pleasantly  without  our  help;  why,  then,  should  not  we 
learn  to  live  without  theirs1?  No,  my  children,  let  us  from  this 
moment  give  up  all  pretensions  to  gentility :  we  have  still 
enough  left  for  happiness  if  we  are  wise,  and  let  us  draw  upon 
content  for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune." 

As  my  eldest  son  was  bred  a  scholar,  I  determined  to  send 
him  to  town,  where  his  abilities  might  contribute  to  our  support 


10  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

and  his  own.  The  separation  of  friends  and  families  is,  perhaps, 
one  of  the  most  distressful  circumstances  attendant  on  penury. 
The  day  soon  arrived  on  which  we  were  to  disperse  for  the  first 
time.  My  son,  after  taking  leave  of  his  mother  and  the  rest, 
who  mingled  their  tears  with  their  kisses,  came  to  ask  a  bless- 
ing from  me.  This  I  gave  him  from  my  heart,  and  which, 
added  to  five  guineas,  was  all  the  ^ajrimony  I  had  now  to 
bestow.  "You  are  going,  my  boy,"  cried  I,  "to  London  on 
foot,  in  the  manner  Hooker,0  your  great  ancestor,  travelled 
there  before  you.  Take  from  me  the  same  horse  that  was 
given  him  by  the  good  Bishop  Jewel0  —  this  staff;  and  take 
this  book  too ;  it  will  be  your  comfort  on  the  way :  these  two 
lines  in  it  are  worth  a  million  —  '  I  have  been  young,0  and  now 
am  old ;  yet  never  saw  I  the  righteous  man  forsaken,  or  his 
seed  begging  their  bread.'  Let  this  be  your  consolation  as  you 
travel  on.  Go,  my  boy ;  whatever  be  thy  fortune,  let  me  see 
thee  once  a  year  ;  still  keep  a  good  heart,  and  farewell."  As  he 
was  possessed  of  integrity  and  honour,  I  was  under  no  appre- 
hensions from  throwing  him  naked  into  the  amphitheatre  of 
life ;  for  I  knew  he  would  act  a  good  part,  whether  vanquished 
or  victorious. 

His  departure  only  prepared  the  way  for  our  own,  which 
arrived  a  few  days  afterwards.  The  leaving  a  neighbourhood 
in  which  we  had  enjoyed  so  many  hours  of  tranquillity  was  not 
without  a  tear,  which  scarce  fortitude  itself  could  suppress. 
Besides,  a  journey  of  seventy  miles,  to  a  family  that  had  hitherto 
never  been  above  ten  from  home,  filled  us  with  apprehension ; 
and  the  cries  of  the  poor,  who  followed  us  for  some  miles,  con- 
tributed to  increase  it.  The  first  day's  journey  brought  us  in 
safety  within  thirty  miles  of  our  future  retreat,  and  we  put  up 
for  the  night  at  an  obscure  inn  in  a  village  by  the  way.  When 
we  were  shown  a  room,  I  desired  the  landlord,  in  my  usual 
way,  to  let  us  have  his  company,  with  which  he  complied,  as 
what  he  drank  would  increase  the  bill  next  morning.  He 


A    MIGRATION  11 

knew,  however,  the  whole  neighbourhood  to  which  I  was  re- 
moving, particularly  Squire  Thornhill,  who  was  to  be  my  land- 
lord, and  who  lived  within  a  few  miles  of  the  place.  This 
gentleman  he  described  as  one  who  desired  to  know  little  more 
of  the  world  than  its  pleasures,  being  particularly  remarkable 
for  his  attachment  for  the  fair  sex.  He  observed  that  no  virtue  *! 
was  able  to  resist  his  arts  and_assidujty,  and  that  scarce  a 
farmer's  daughter  within  ten  miles  round  but  what  had  found  him 
successful  and  faithless.  Though  this  account  gave  me  some 
pain,0  it  had  a  very  different  effect  upon  my  daughters,  whose 
features  seemed  to  brighten  with  the  expectation  of  an  approach- 
ing triumph :  nor  was  my  wife  less  pleased  and  confident  of  their 
allurements  and  virtue.  While  our  thoughts  were  thus  em- 
ployed, the  hostess  entered  the  room  to  inform  her  husband 
that  the  strange  gentleman  who  had  been  two  days  in  the 
house  wanted  money,  and  could  not  satisfy  them  for  his  reckon- 
ing. "  Want  money !  "  replied  the  host,  "  that  must  be  im- 
possible; for  it  was  no  later  than  yesterday  he  paid  three 
guineas  to  our  beadle  to  spare  an  old  broken  soldier  that  was  to 
be  whipped  through  the  town  for  dog-stealing."  The  hostess, 
however,  still  persisting  in  her  first  assertion,  he  was  preparing 
to  leave  the  room,  swearing  that  he  would  be  satisfied  one  way 
or  another,  when  I  begged  the  landlord  would  introduce  me  to 
a  stranger  of  so  much  charity  as  he  described.  With  this  he 
complied,  showing  in  a  gentleman  who  seemed  to  be  about 
thirty,  dressed  in  clothes  that  once  were  laced.0  His  person 
was  well  formed,  and  his  face  marked  with  the  lines  of  think- 
ing. He  had  something  short  and  dry  in  his  address,  and 
seemed  not  to  understand  ceremony,  or  to  despise  it.  Upon 
the  landlord's  leaving  the  room,  I  could  not  avoid  expressing 
my  concern  to  the  stranger  at  seeing  a  gentleman  in  such  cir- 
cumstances, and  offered  him  my  purse  to  satisfy  the  present 
demand.  "  I  take  it  with  all  my  heart,  sir,"  replied  he,  "and 
am  glad  that  a  late  oversight  in  giving  what  money  I  had 


12  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

about  me  has  shown  me  there  are  still  some  men  like  you.  I 
must,  however,  previously  entreat  being  informed  of  the  name 
and  residence  of  my  benefactor,  in  order  to  repay  him  as  soon 
as  possible."  In  this  I  satisfied  him  fully,  not  only  mentioning 
my  name  and  late  misfortunes,  but  the  place  to  which  I  was 
going  to  remove.  "This,"  cried  he,  "happens  still  more  luckily 
than  I  hoped  for,  as  I  am  going  the  same  way  myself,  having 
been  detained  here  two  days  by  the  floods,  which  I  hope  by 
to-morrow  will  be  found  passable."  I  testified  the  pleasure  I 
should  have  in  his  company;  and  my  wife  and  daughters  join- 
ing in  entreaty,  he  was  prevailed  upon  to  stay  supper.  The 
stranger's  conversation,  which  was  at  once  pleasing  and  in- 
structive, induced  me  to  wish  for  a  continuance  of  it ;  but  it 
was  now  high  time  to  retire  and  take  refreshment  against  the 
fatigues  of  the  following  day. 

The  next  morning  we  all  set  forward  together,  my  family  on 
horseback,  while  Mr.  Burchell,  our  new  companion,  walked  along 
the  footpath  by  the  roadside,  observing  with  a  smile  that,  as  we 
were  ill-mounted,  he  would  be  too  generous  to  attempt  leaving 
us  behind.  As  the  floods  were  not  yet  subsided,  we  were 
obliged  to  hire  a  guide,  who  trotted  on  before,  Mr.  Burchell  and 
I  bringing  up  the  rear.  We  lightened  the  fatigues  of  the  road 
with  philosophical  disputes,  which  he  seemed  to  understand  per- 
fectly. But  what  surprised  me  most  was,  that  though  he  was 
a  money-borrower,  he  defended  his  opinions  with  as  much  ob- 
stinacy as  if  he  had  been  my  patron.  He  now  and  then  also  in- 
formed me  to  whom  the  different  seats  belonged  that  lay  in  our 
view  as  we  travelled  the  road.  "  That,"  cried  he,  pointing  to  a 
very  magnificent  house  which  stood  at  some  distance,  "  belongs 
to  Mr.  Thornhill,  a  young  gentleman  who  enjoys  a  large  fortune, 
though  entirely  dependent  on  the  will  of  his  uncle,  Sir  William 
Thornhill,  a  gentleman  who,  content  with  a  little  himself,  per- 
mits his  nephew  to  enjoy  the  rest,  and  chiefly  resides  in  town." 
—  "  What ! "  cried  I,  "  is  my  young  landlord,  then,  the  nephew 


A    MIGRATION  13 

of  a  man  whose  virtues,  generosity,  and  singularities  are  so  uni- 
versally known?  I  have  heard  Sir  William  Thornhill  repre- 
sented as  one  of  the  most  generous  yet  whimsical  men  in  the 
kingdom;  a  man  of  consummate  benevolence." — "Something, 
perhaps,  too  much  so,"  replied  Mr.  Burchell;  "at  least  he  car- 
ried benevolence  to  an  excess  when  young ;  for  his  passions  were 
then  strong,  and  as  they  were  all  upon  the  side  of  virtue,  they 
led  it  up  to  a  romantic  extreme.  He  early  began  to  aim  at  the 
qualifications  of  the  soldier  and  the  scholar,  was  soon  distin- 
guished in  the  army,  and  had  some  reputation  among  men  of 
learning.  Adulation  ever  follows  the  ambitious ;  for  such  alone 
receive  most  pleasure  from  flattery.  He  was  surrounded  with 
crowds,  who  showed  him  only  one  side  of  their  character ;  so 
that  he  began  to  lose  a  regard  for  private  interest  in  universal 
sympathy.  He  loved  all  mankind ;  for  fortune  prevented  him 
from  knowing  that  there  were  rascals.  Physicians  tell  us  of  a 
disorder  in  which  the  whole  body  is  so  exquisitely  sensible  that 
the  slightest  touch  gives  pain  :  what  some  have  thus  suffered  in 
their  persons,  this  gentleman  felt  in  his  mind  :  the  slightest  dis- 
tress, whether  real  or  fictitious,  touched  him  to  the  quick,  and 
his  soul  laboured  under  a  sickly  sensibility  of  the  miseries  of 
others.  Thus  disposed  to  relieve,  it  will  be  easily  conjectured 
he  found  numbers  disposed  to  solicit ;  his  profusions  began  to 
impair  his  fortune,  but  not  his  good-nature  —  that,  indeed,  was 
seen  to  increase  as  the  other  seemed  to  decay :  he  grew  im- 
provident as  he  grew  poor ;  and  though  he  talked  like  a  man  of 
sense7his  actions  were  those  of  a  fool.  Still,  however,  being 
surrounded  with  importunity,  and  no  longer  able  to  satisfy  every 
request  that  was  made  him,  instead  of  money  he  gave  promises. 
They  were  all  he  had  to  bestow,  and  he  had  not  resolution 
enough  to  give  any  man  pain  by  a  denial.  By  this  he  drew 
round  him  crowds  of  dependants,  whom  he  was  sure  to  disap- 
point, yet  wished  to  relieve.  These  hung  upon  him  for  a  time, 
and  left  him  with  merited  reproaches  and  contempt.  But  in 


14  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

proportion  as  he  became  contemptible  to  others,  he  became  des- 
picable to  himself.0  His  mind  had  leaned  upon  their  adulation, 
and  that  support  taken  away,  he  could  find  no  pleasure  in  the 
applause  of  his  heart,  which  he  had  never  learned  to  reverence. 
The  world  now  began  to  wear  a  different  aspect :  the  flattery  of 
his  friends  began  to  dwindle  into  simple  approbation ;  approba- 
tion soon  took  the  more  friendly  form  of  advice ;  and  advice, 
when  rejected,  produced  their  reproaches.  He  now  therefore 
found  that  such  friends  as  benefits  had  gathered  round  him, 
were  little  estimable:  he  now  found  that  a  man's  own  heart 
must  be  ever  given  to  gain  that  of  another.  I  now  found  that 
—  that  —  I  forget  what  I  was  going  to  observe :  in  short,  sir,  he 
resolved  to  respect  himself,  and  laid  down  a  plan  of  restoring  his 
fallen  fortune.  For  this  purpose,  in  his  own  whimsical  manner, 
he  travelled  through  Europe  on  foot ;  and  now,  though  he  has 
scarce  attained  the  age  of  thirty,  his  circumstances  are  more 
affluent  than  ever.  At  present,  his  bounties  are  more  rational 
and  moderate  than  before ;  but  still  he  preserves  the  character 
of  an  humourist,0  and  finds  most  pleasure  in  eccentric  virtues." 
My  attention  was  so  much  taken  up  by  Mr.  Burch ell's  ac- 
count, that  I  scarce  looked  forward  as  he  went  along,  till  we 
were  alarmed  by  the  cries  of  my  family ;  when,  turning,  I  per- 
ceived my  youngest  daughter  in  the  midst  of  a  rapid  stream,  thrown 
from  her  horse,  and  struggling  with  the  torrent.  She  had  sunk 
twice,  nor  was  it  in  my  power  to  disengage  myself  in  time  to  bring 
her  relief.  My  sensations  were  even  too  violent  to  permit  my  at- 
tempting her  rescue :  she  must  have  certainly  perished  had  not 
my  companion,  perceiving  her  danger,  instantly  plunged  in  to 
her  relief,  and,  with  some  difficulty,  brought  her  in  safety  to  the 
opposite  shore.  By  taking  the  current  a  little  farther  up,  the 
rest  of  the  family  got  safely  over,  where  we  had  an  opportunity 
of  joining  our  acknowledgments  to  hers.  Her  gratitude  may 
be  more  readily  imagined  than  described  :  she  thanked  her 
deliverer  more  with  looks  than  with  words,  and  continued  to 


HUMBLE   HAPPINESS  15 

lean  upon  his  arm,  as  if  still  willing  to  receive  assistance.  My 
wife  also  hoped  one  day  to  have  the  pleasure  of  returning  his 
kindness  at  her  own  house.  Thus,  after  we  were  refreshed  at 
the  next  inn,  and  had  dined  together,  as  Mr.  Burchell  was  go- 
ing to  a  different  part  of  the  country,  he  took  leave,  and  we  pur- 
sued our  journey,  my  wife  observing  as  he  went,  that  she  liked 
him  extremely,  and  protesting  that  if  he  had  birth  and  fortune 
to  entitle. him  to  match  into  such  a  family  as  ours,  she  knew 
no  man  she  would  sooner  fix  upon.  I  could  not  but  smile  to 
hear  her  talk  in  this  lofty  strain ;  but  I  was  never  much  dis- 
pleased with  those  harmless  delusions  that  tend  to  make  us  more 
happy. 

CHAPTER   IV 

A  Proof  that  even  the  humblest  Fortune  may  grant  Happiness, 
which  depends,  not  on  Circumstances,  but  Constitution 

THE  place  of  our  retreat  was  in  a  little  neighbourhood  con- 
sisting of  farmers,  who  tilled  their  own  grounds,  and  were  equal 
strangers  to  opulence  and  poverty.  As  they  had  almost  all  the 
conveniences  of  life  within  themselves,  they  seldom  visited  towns 
or  cities  in  search  of  superfluity.  Remote  from  the  polite^  they 
still  retained  the  primeval  simplicity  of  manners  ;  and,  frugal  by 
habit,  they  scarce  knew  that  temperance  was  a  virtue.  They 
wrought  with  cheerfulness  on  days  of  labour ;  but  observed 
festivals  as  intervals  of  idleness  and  pleasure.  They  kept  up 
the  Christmas  carol,  sent  true-love-knots  on  Valentine  morning, 
ate  pancakes  on  Shrovetide,0  showed  their  wit  on  the  first  of 
April,  and  religiously  cracked  nuts  on  Michaelmas  eve.0  Being 
apprised  of  our  approach,  the  whole  neighbourhood  came  out  to 
meet  their  minister,  dressed  in  their  finest  clothes,  and  preceded 
by  a  pipe  and  tabor.0  A  feast  also  was  provided  for  our  recep- 
tion, at  which  we  sat  cheerfully  down ;  and  what  the  conversa- 
tion wanted  in  wit  was  made  up  in  laughter. 


16  THE     VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

Our  little  habitation  was  situated  at  the  foot  of  a  sloping 
hill,  sheltered  with  a  beautiful  underwood  behind,  and  a  prat- 
tling river  before ;  on  one  side  a  meadow,  on  the  other  a  green. 
My  farm  consisted  of  about  twenty  acres  of  excellent  land,  hav- 
ing given  an  hundred  pounds  for  my  predecessor's  good- will. 
Nothing  could  exceed  the  neatness  of  my  little  enclosures,  the 
elms  and  hedge-rows  appearing  with  inexpressible  beauty.  My 
house  consisted  of  but  one  story,  and  was  covered  with  thatch, 
which  gave  it  an  air  of  great  snugness ;  the  walls,  on  the  inside, 
were  nicely  whitewashed,  and  my  daughters  undertook  to  adorn 
them  with  pictures  of  their  own  designing.  Though  the  same 
room  served  us  for  parlour  and  kitchen,  that  only  made  it  the 
warmer.  Besides,  as  it  was  kept  with  the  utmost  neatness, 
the  dishes,  plates,  and  coppers  °  being  well  scoured,  and  all  dis- 
posed in  bright  rows  °  on  the  shelves,  the  eye  was  agreeably  re- 
lieved, and  did  not  want  richer  furniture.  There  were  three 
other  apartments;  one  for  my  wife  and  me,  another  for  our 
two  daughters  within  our  own,  and  the  third,  with  two  beds, 
for  the  rest  of  the  children. 

The  little  republic  to  which  I  gave  laws,  was  regulated  in  the 
following  manner  :  —  By  sunrise  we  all  assembled  in  our  com- 
mon apartment,  the  fire  being  previously  kindled  by  the  servant. 
After  we  had  saluted  each  other  with  proper  ceremony  —  for  I 
always  thought  fit  to  keep  up  some  mechanical  forms  of  good 
breeding,  without  which  freedom  ever  destroys  friendship  —  we 
all  bent  in  gratitude  to  that  Being  who  gave  us  another  day. 
This  duty  being  performed,  my  son  and  I  went  to  pursue  our 
usual  industry  abroad,  while  my  wife  and  daughters  employed 
themselves  in  providing  breakfast,  which  was  always  ready  at 
a  certain  time.  I  allowed  half  an  hour  for  this  meal,  and  an 
hour  for  dinner,  which  time  was  taken  up  in  innocent  mirth 
between  my  wife  and  daughters,  and  in  philosophical  argu- 
ments between  my  son  and  me. 
)  As  we  rose  with  the  sun,  so  we  never  pursued  our  labours 


HUMBLE   HAPPINESS  17 

after  it  was  gone  down,  but  returned  home  to  the  expecting 
family,  where  smiling  looks,  a  neat  hearth,  and  pleasant  fire, 
were  prepared  for  our  reception.  Nor  were  we  without  guests  : 
sometimes  Farmer  Flamborough,  our  talkative  neighbour,  and 
often  the  blind  piper,  would  pay  us  a  visit,  and  taste  our  goose- 
berry wine,  for  the  making  of  which  we  had  lost  neither  the 
receipt  nor  the  reputation.  These  harmless  people  had  several 
ways  of  being  good  company ;  while  one  played,  the  other 
would  sing  some  soothing  ballad,  —  Johnny  Armstrong's  Last 
Good-night,  or  the  Cruelty  of  Barbara  Allen.0  The  night  was 
concluded  in  the  manner  we  began  the  morning,  my  youngest 
boys  being  appointed  to  read  the  lessons  of  the  day;  and  he 
that  read  loudest,  distinctest,  and  best,  was  to  have  a  halfpenny 
on  Sunday  to  put  into  the  poor's  box. 

When  Sunday  came,  it  was  indeed  a  day  of  finery,  which 
all  my  sumptuary  edicts  could  not  restrain.  How  well  soever 
I  fancied  my  lectures  against  pride  had  conquered  the  vanity  of 
my  daughters,  yet  I  still  found  them  secretly  attached  to  all 
their  former  finery ;  they  still  loved  laces,  ribands,  bugles,0  and 
catgut;0  my  wife  herself  retained  a  passion  for  her  crimson 
paduasoy,0  because  I  formerly  happened  to  say  it  became  her. 

The  first  Sunday,  in  particular,  their  behaviour  served  to 
mortify  me.  I  had  desired  my  girls  the  preceding  night  to  be 
dressed  early  the  next  day ;  for  I  always  loved  to  be  at  church 
a  good  while  before  the  rest  of  the  congregation.  They  punc- 
tually obeyed  my  directions ;  but  when  we  were  to  assemble  in 
the  morning  at  breakfast,  down  came  my  wife  and  daughters 
dressed  out  in  all  their  former  splendour :  their  hair  plastered 
up  with  pomatum,  their  faces  patched  °  to  taste,  their  trains 
bundled  up  in  a  heap  behind,  and  rustling  at  every  motion.  I 
could  not  help  smiling  at  their  vanity,  particularly  that  of  my 
wife,  from  whom  I  expected  more  discretion.  In  this  exi- 
gence, therefore,  my  only  resource  was  to  order  my  son,  with 
an  important  air,  to  call  our  coach.  The  girls  were  amazed  at 


18  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFlELD 

the  command;  but  I  repeated  it  with  more  solemnity  than 
before.  " Surely,  my  dear,  you  jest,"  cried  my  wife;  "we 
can  walk  it  perfectly  well ;  we  want  no  coach  to  carry  us  now." 
—  "  You  mistake,  child,"  returned  I,,  "we  do  want  a  coach ; 
for  if  we  walk  to  church  in  this  trim,  the  very  children  in  the 
parish  will  hoot  after  us."  —  "Indeed,"  replied  my  wife;  "I 
always  imagined  that  my  Charles  was  fond  of  seeing  his  chil- 
dren neat  and  handsome  about  him."  —  "  You  may  be  as  neat 
as  you  please,"  interrupted  I,  "and  I  shall  love  you  the  better 
for  it ;  but  all  this  is  not  neatness,  but  frippery.  These  ruf- 
flings,  and  pinkings,  and  patchings  will  only  make  us  hated  by 
all  the  wives  of  our  neighbours.  No,  my  children,"  continued 
I,  more  gravely,  "  those  gowns  may  be  altered  into  something 
of  a  plainer  cut ;  for  finery  is  very  unbecoming  in  us  who  want 
the  means  of  decency.  I  do  not  know  whether  such  flouncing 
and  shredding  °  is  becoming  even  in  the  rich,  if  we  consider, 
upon  a  moderate  calculation,  that  the  nakedness  of  the  indigent 
world  might  be  clothed  from  the  trimmings  of  the  vain."0 

This  remonstrance  had  the  proper  effect :  they  went  with 
great  composure,  that  very  instant,  to  change  their  dress ;  and 
the  next  day  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  my  daughters,  at 
their  own  request,  employed  in  cutting  up  their  trains  into 
Sunday  waistcoats  for  Dick  and  Bill,  the  two  little  ones,  and 
what  was  still  more  satisfactory,  the  gowns  seemed  improved 
by  this  curtailing. 

CHAPTER  V 

A  new  and  great  Acquaintance  introduced.     What  we  place  most 
Hopes  upon,  generally  proves  most  fatal 

AT  a  small  distance  from  the  house,  my  predecessor  had 
made  a  seat,  overshadowed  by  a  hedge  of  hawthorn0  and  honey- 
suckle. Here,  when  the  weather  was  fine  and  our  labour  soon 


A    NEW   AND    GEEAT   ACQUAINTANCE  19 

finished,  we  usually  sat  together,  to  enjoy  an  extensive  land- 
scape in  the  calm  of  the  evening.  Here,  too,  we  drank  tea, 
which  now  was  become  an  occasional  banquet ;°  and  as  we  had 
it  but  seldom,  it  diffused  a  new  joy,  the  preparations  for  it 
being  made  with  no  small  share  of  bustle  and  ceremony.  On 
these  occasions  our  two  little  ones  always  read  for  us,  and  they 
were  regularly  served  after  we  had  done.  Sometimes,  to  give 
a  variety  to  our  amusements,  the  girls  sung  to  the  guitar ;  and 
while  they  thus  formed  a  little  concert,  my  wife  and  I  would 
stroll  down  the  sloping  field,  that  was  embellished  with  blue- 
bells and  centaury,0  talk  of  our  children  with  rapture,  and 
enjoy  the  breeze  that  wafted  both  health  and  harmony. 

In  this  manner  we  began  to  find  that  every  situation  in  life 
may  bring  its  own  peculiar  pleasures  ;  every  morning  waked  us 
to  a  repetition  of  toil,  but  the  evening  repaid  it  withjvacant0 
hilarity. 

It  was  about  the  beginning  of  autumn,  on  a  holiday  —  for  I 
kept  such  as  intervals  of  relaxation  from  labour  —  that  I  had 
drawn  out  my  family  to  our  usual  place  of  amusement,  and 
our  yoang  musicians  began  their  usual  concert.  As  we  were 
thus  engaged,  we  saw  a  stag  bound  nimbly  by,  within  about 
twenty  paces  of  where  we  were  sitting,  and  by  its  panting  it 
seemed  pressed  by  the  hunters.  We  had  not  much  time  to 
reflect  upon  the  poor  animal's  distress,  when  we  perceived  the 
dogs  and  horsemen  come  sweeping  along  at  some  distance 
behind,  and  making  the  very  path  it  had  taken.  I  was  in- 
stantly for  returning  in  with  my  family,  but  either  curiosity,  or 
surprise,  or  some  more  hidden  motive,  held  my  wife  and  daugh- 
ters to  their  seats.  The  huntsman  who  rode  foremost  passed 
us  with  great  swiftness,  followed  by  four  or  five  persons  more, 
who  seemed  in  equal  haste.  At  last  a  young  gentleman  of 
more  genteel  appearance  than  the  rest  came  forward,  and  for  a 
while  regarding  us,  instead  of  pursuing  the  chase,  stopped  short, 
and  giving  his  horse  to  a  servant  who  attended,  approached  us 


20  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

with  a  careless,  superior  air.  He  seemed  to  want  no  intro- 
duction, but  was  going  to  salute0  my  daughters  as  one  certain 
of  a  kind  reception;  but  they  had  early  learnt  the  lesson  of 
looking  presumption  out  of  countenance  :  upon  which  he  let  us 
know  that  his  name  was  Thornhill,  and  that  he  was  owner  of 
the  estate  that  lay  for  some  extent  round  us.  He  again  there- 
fore offered  to  salute  the  female  part  of  the  family,  and  such 
was  the  power  of  fortune  and  fine  clothes,  that  he  found  no 
second  repulse.  As  his  address,  though  confident,  was  easy, 
we  soon  became  more  familiar ;  and  perceiving  musical  instru- 
ments lying  near,  he  begged  to  be  favoured  with  a  song.  As 
I  did  not  approve  of  such  disproportioned  acquaintances,  I 
winked  upon  my  daughters  in  order  to  prevent  their  compli- 
ance ;  but  my  hint  was  counteracted  by  one  from  their  mother ; 
so  that,  with  a  cheerful  air,  they  gave  us  a  favourite  song  of 
Dryden's.  Mr.  Thornhill  seemed  highly  delighted  with  their 
performance  and  choice,  and  then  took  up  the  guitar  himself. 
He  played  but  very  indifferently ;  however,  my  eldest  daughter 
repaid  his  former  applause  with  interest,  and  assured  him  that  his 
tones  were  louder  than  even  those  of  her  master.  At  this  com- 
pliment he  bowed,  which  she  returned  with  a  curtsey.  He 
praised  her  taste,  and  she  commended  his  understanding;  an 
age  could  not  have  made  them  better  acquainted  :  while  the 
fond  mother  too,  equally  happy,  insisted  upon  her  landlord's 
stepping  in  and  tasting  a  glass  of  her  gooseberry.  The  whole 
family  seemed  earnest  to  please  him:  my  girls  attempted  to 
entertain  him  with  topics  they  thought  most  modern ;  while 
Moses,  on  the  contrary,  gave  him  a  question  or  two  from 
the  ancients,  for  which  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  being  laughed 
at.  My  little  ones  were  no  less  busy,  and  fondly  stuck 
close  to  the  stranger.  All  my  endeavours  could  scarce  keep 
their  dirty  fingers  from  handling  and  tarnishing  the  lace  on  his 
clothes,  and  lifting  up  the  flaps  of  his  pocket-holes  to  see  what 
was  there.  At  the  approach  of  evening  he  took  leave ;  but  not 


A    NEW   AND    GREAT   ACQUAINTANCE  21 

till  he  had  requested  permission  to  renew  his  visit,  which,  as 
he  was  our  landlord,  we  most  readily  agreed  to. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  my  wife  called  a  council  on  the 
conduct  of  the  day.  She  was  of  opinion  that  it  was  a  most 
fortunate  hit; -for  she  had  known  even  stranger  things  than 
that  brought  to  bear.  She  hoped  again  to  see  the  day  in  which 
we  might  hold  up  our  heads  with  the  best  of  them;  and 
concluded,  she  protested  she  could  see  no  reason  why  the  two 
Miss  Wrinklers  should  marry  great  fortunes,  and  her  children 
get  none.  As  this  last  argument  was  directed  to  me,  I  pro- 
tested I  could  see  no  reason  for  it  neither ;  nor  why  Mr.  Simp- 
kins  got  the  ten  thousand  pound  prize  in  the  lottery,  and  we  sat 
down  with  a  blank.  "I  protest,  Charles,"  cried  my  wife,  "this 
is  the  way  you  always  damp  my  girls  and  me  when  we  are  in 
spirits.  Tell  me,  Sophy,  my  dear,  what  do  you  think  of  our 
new  visitor?  Don't  you  think  he  seemed  to  be  good-natured?" 
—  "Immensely  so,  indeed,  mamma,"  replied  she  :  "I  think  he 
has  a  great  deal  to  say  upon  everything,  and  is  never  at  a  loss ; 
and  the  more  trifling  the  subject,  the  more  he  has  to  say."  — 
"Yes,"  cried  Olivia,  "he  is  well  enough  for  a  man;  but  for 
my  own  part  I  don't  much  like  him ;  he  is  so  extremely  impu- 
dent and  familiar;  but  on  the  guitar  he  is  shocking."  These 
two  last  speeches  I  interpreted  by  contraries.  I  found  by  this, 
that  Sophia  internally  despised,  as  much  as  Olivia  secretly 
admired  him.  "  Whatever  may  be  your  opinions  of  him,  my 
children,"  cried  I,  "to  confess  a  truth,  he  has  not  prepossessed 
me  in  his  favour.  Disproportioned  friendships  ever  terminate  in 
disgust ;  and  I  thought,  notwithstanding  all  his  ease,  that  he 
seemed  perfectly  sensible  of  the  distance  between  us.  Let  us 
keep  to  companions  of  our  own  rank.  There  is  no  character 
more  contemptible  than  a  man  that  is  a  fortune-hunter ;  and  I 
can  see  no  reason  why  fortune-hunting  women  should  not  be 
contemptible  too  Thus,  at  best,  we  shall  be  contemptible  if 
his  views  are  honourable ;  but  if  they  be  otherwise  !  —  I  should 


22  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

shudder  but  to  think  of  that.  It  is  true,  I  have  no  apprehen- 
sions from  the  conduct  of  my  children ;  but  I  think  there  are 
some  from  his  character."  I  would  have  proceeded  but  for  the 
interruption  of  a  servant  from  the  Squire,  who,  with  his  com- 
pliments, sent  us  a  side  of  venison,  and  a  promise  to  dine  with 
us  some  days  after.  This  well-timed  present  pleaded  more 
powerfully  in  his  favour  than  anything  I  had  to  say  could  obvi- 
ate. I  therefore  continued  silent,  satisfied  with  just  having 
pointed  out  danger,  and  leaving  it  to  their  own  discretion  to 
avoid  it.  That  virtue  which  requires  to  be  ever  guarded  is 
scarce  worth  the  sentinel. 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  Happiness  of  a  Country  Fireside 

As  we  carried  on  the  former  dispute  with  some  degree  of 
warmth,  in  order  to  accommodate  matters  it  was  universally 
agreed  that  we  should  have  a  part  of  the  venison  for  supper ; 
and  the  girls  undertook  the  task  with  alacrity.  "  I  am  sorry," 
cried  I,  "  that  we  have  no  neighbour  or  stranger  to  take  part 
in  this  good  cheer ;  feasts  of  this  kind  acquire  a  double  relish 
from  hospitality."  —  "Bless  me,"  cried  my  wife,  "here  comes 
our  good  friend  Mr.  Burchell,  that  saved  our  Sophia,  and  that 
run  you  down  fairly  in  the  argument."  —  "  Confute  me  in  argu- 
ment, child  !  "  cried  I.  "  You  mistake  there,  my  dear ;  I  be- 
lieve there  are  but  few  that  can  do  that.  I  never  dispute  your 
abilities  at  making  a  goose-pie,  and  I  beg  you'll  leave  argument 
to  me."  As  I  spoke,  poor  Mr.  Burchell  entered  the  house,  and 
was  welcomed  by  the  family,  who  shook  him  heartily  by  the 
hand,  while  little  Dick  officiously  reached  him  a  chair. 

I  was  pleased  with  the  poor  man's  friendship0  for  two  reasons  : 


A    COUNTRY  FIRESIDE  23 

because  I  knew  that  he  wanted  mine,  and  I  knew  him  to  be 
friendly  as  far  as  he  was  able.  He  was  known  in  our  neighbour- 
hood by  the  character0  of  the  poor  gentleman  that  would  do  no 
good  when  he  was  young,  though  he  was  not  yet  thirty.  He 
would  at  intervals  talk  with  great  good  sense ;  but  in  general 
he  was  fondest  of  the  company  of  children,  whom  he  used  to 
call  harmless  little  men.  He  was  famous,  I  found,  for  singing 
them  ballads  and  telling  them  stories,  and  seldom  went  out 
without  something  in  his  pockets  for  them  —  a  piece  of  ginger- 
bread or  a  halfpenny  whistle.  He  generally  came  for  a  few 
days  into  our  neighbourhood  once  a  year,  and  lived  upon  the 
neighbours'  hospitality.  He  sat  down  to  supper  among  us,  and 
my  wife  was  not  sparing  of  her  gooseberry  wine.  The  tale  went 
round ;  he  sang  us  old  songs,  and  gave  the  children  the  story  of 
the  Buck  of  Beverland,  with  the  history  of  Patient  Grissel,  the 
adventures  of  Catskin,  and  then  Fair  Kosamond's  Bower.0  Our 
cock,  which  always  crew  at  eleven,  now  told  us  it  was  time  for 
repose ;  but  an  unforeseen  difficulty  started  about  lodging  the 
stranger  —  all  our  beds  were  already  taken  up,  and  it  was  too 
late  to  send  him  to  the  next  alehouse.  In  this  dilemma  little 
Dick  offered  him  his  part  of  the  bed,  if  his  brother  Moses 
would  let  him  lie  with  him:  "And  I,"  cried  Bill,  "will  give 
Mr.  Burchell  my  part,  if  my  sisters  will  take  me  to  theirs.  "- 
"Well  done,  my  good  children,"  cried  I,  "hospitality  is  one  of 
the  first  Christian  duties.  The  beast  retires  to  its  shelter,  and 
the  bird  flies  to  its  nest ;  but  helpless  man  can  only  find  refuge 
from  his  fellow-creature.  The  greatest  stranger  in  this  world 
was  He  that  came  to  save  it.  He  never  had  a  house,  as  if 
willing  to  see  what  hospitality  was  left  remaining  among  us. 
Deborah,  my  dear,"  cried  I  to  my  wife,  "give  those  boys  a 
lump  of  sugar  each ;  and  let  Dick's  be  the  largest,  because  he 
spoke  first." 

In  the  morning  early  I  called  out  my  whole  family  to  help 
at  saving  an  aftergrowth  of  hay,  and  our  guest  offering  his 


24  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

assistance,  he  was  accepted  among  the  number.  Our  labours 
went  on  lightly ;  we  turned  the  swath  to  the  wind.  I  went 
foremost,  and  the  rest  followed  in  due  succession.  I  could  not 
avoid,  however,  observing  the  assiduity  of  Mr.  Burchell  in 
assisting  my  daughter  Sophia  in  her  part  of  the  task.  When 
he  had  finished  his  own,  he  would  join  in  hers,  and  enter  into 
a  close  conversation ;  but  I  had  too  good  an  opinion  of  Sophia's 
understanding,  and  was  too  well  convinced  of  her  ambition,  to 
be  under  any  uneasiness  from  a  man  of  broken  fortune.  When 
we  were  finished  for  the  day,  Mr.  Burchell  was  invited  as  on 
the  night  before,  but  he  refused,  as  he  was  to  lie  that  night  at 
a  neighbour's,  to  whose  child  he  was  carrying  a  whistle.  When 
gone,  our  conversation  at  supper  turned  upon  our  late  unfortu- 
nate guest.  "What  a  strong  instance,"  said  I,  "is  that  poor 
man  of  the  miseries  attending  a  youth  of  levity  and  extrava- 
gance. He  by  no  means  wants  sense,  which  only  serves  to 
aggravate  his  former  folly.  Poor  forlorn  creature  !  where  are 
now  the  revellers,  the  flatterers,  that  he  could  once  inspire  and 
command  1  Gone,  perhaps,  to  attend  the  bagnio  pander,  grown 
rich  by  his  extravagance.  They  once  praised  him,  and  now 
they  applaud  the  pander :  their  former  raptures  at  his  wit  are 
now  converted  into  sarcasms  at  his  folly :  he  is  poor,  and  per- 
haps deserves  poverty ;  for  he  has  neither  the  ambition  to  be 
independent  nor  the  skill  to  be  useful."  Prompted  perhaps  by 
some  secret  reasons,  I  delivered  this  observation  with  too  much 
acrimony,  which  my  Sophia  gently  reproved.  "  Whatsoever  his 
former  conduct  may  have  been,  papa,  his  circumstances  should 
exempt  him  from  censure  now.  His  present  indigence  is  a 
sufficient  punishment  for  former  folly;  and  I  have  heard  my 
papa  himself  say,  that  we  should  never  strike  one  unnecessary 
blow  at  a  victim  over  whom  Providence  holds  the  scourge  of 
its  resentment."  —  "You  are  right,  Sophy,"  cried  my  son 
Moses;  "and  one  of  the  ancients  finely  represents  so  malicious 
a  conduct,  by  the  attempts  of  a  rustic  to  flay  Marsyas,  whose 


A    COUNTRY   FIRESIDE  25 

skin,  the  fable  tells  us,  had  been  wholly  stripped  off  by  another. 
Besides,  I  don't  know  if  this  poor  man's  situation  be  so  bad 
as  my  father  would  represent  it.  We  are  not  to  judge  of  the 
feelings  of  others  by  what  we  might  feel  in  their  place.  How- 
ever dark  the  habitation  of  the  mole  to  our  eyes,  yet  the  animal 
itself  finds  the  apartment  sufficiently  lightsome.  And,  to  con- 
fess a  truth,  this  man's  mind  seems  fitted  to  his  station ;  for  I 
never  heard  any  one  more  sprightly  than  he  was  to-day  when 
he  conversed  with  you."  This  was  said  without  the  least 
design ;  however,  it  excited  a  blush,  which  she  strove  to  cover 
by  an  affected  laugh,  assuring  him  that  she  scarce  took  any 
notice  of  what  he  said  to  her,  but  that  she  believed  he  might 
once  have  been  a  very  fine  gentleman.  The  readiness  with 
which  she  undertook  to  vindicate  herself,  and  her  blushing, 
were  symptoms  I  did  not  internally  approve ;  but  I  repressed 
my  suspicions. 

As  we  expected  our  landlord  the  next  day,  iny  wife  went  to 
make  the  venison  pasty.  Moses  sat  reading,  while  I  taught 
the  little  ones.  My  daughters  seemed  equally  busy  with  the 
rest,  and  I  observed  them  for  a  good  while  cooking  something 
over  the  fire.  I  at  first  supposed  they  were  assisting  their 
mother,  but  little  Dick  informed  me  in  a  whisper  that  they 
were  making  a  wash  for  the  face.  Washes  of  all  kinds  I  had  a 
natural  antipathy  to ;  for  I  knew  that,  instead  of  mending  the 
complexion,  they  spoiled  it.  I  therefore  approached  my  chair 
by  sly  degrees  to  the  fire,  and  grasping  the  poker,  as  if  it 
wanted  mending,  seemingly  by  accident  overturned  the  whole 
composition,  and  it  was  too  late  to  begin  another. 


26  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 


CHAPTER  VII 

A    Town  Wit  described.       The  dullest  Fellows  may  learn  to  be 
comical  for  a  Night  or  two 

WHEN  the  morning  arrived  on  which  we  were  to  enter- 
tain our  young  landlord,  it  may  be  easily  supposed  what  pro- 
visions were  exhausted  to  make  an  appearance.  It  may  also 
be  conjectured  that  my  wife  and  daughters  expanded  their 
gayest  plumage  on  this  occasion.  Mr.  Thornhill  came  with  a 
couple  of  friends,  his  chaplain0  and  feeder.0  The  servants,  who 
were  numerous,  he  politely  ordered  to  the  next  alehouse :  but 
my  wife,  in  the  triumph  of  her  heart,  insisted  on  entertaining 
them  all ;  for  which,  by  the  by,  our  family  was  pinched  for 
three  weeks  after.  As  Mr.  Burchell  had  hinted  to  us  the  day 
before  that  he  was  making  some  proposals  of  marriage  to  Miss 
Wilmot,  my  son  George's  former  mistress,  this  a  good  deal 
damped  the  heartiness  of  his  reception  :  but  accident  in  some 
measure  relieved  our  embarrassment ;  for  one  of  the  company 
happening  to  mention  her  name,  Mr.  Thornhill  observed  with 
an  oath,  that  he  never  knew  anything  more  absurd  than  calling 
such  a  fright  a  beauty:  "For,  strike  me  ugly,"  continued  he, 
"  if  I  should  not  find  as  much  pleasure  in  choosing  my  mistress 
by  the  information  of  a  lamp  under  the  clock  of  St.  Dunstan's."0 
At  this  he  laughed,  and  so  did  we :  the  jests  of  the  rich  are 
ever  successful.  Olivia,  too,  could  not  avoid  whispering,  loud 
enough  to  be  heard,  that  he  had  an  infinite  fund  of  humour. 

After  dinner  I  began  with  my  usual  toast,  the  Church. 
For  this  I  was  thanked  by  the  chaplain,  as  he  said  the  Church 
was  the  only  mistress  of  his  affections.  "  Come,  tell  us  hon- 
estly, Frank,"  said  the  Squire,  with  his  usual  archness,  "sup- 
pose the  Church,  your  present  mistress,  dressed  in  lawn  sleeves, 
on  one  hand,  and  Miss  Sophia,  with  no  lawn  about  her,  on 


A    TOWN    WIT  27 

the  other,  which  would  you  be  for  ? "  -  —  "  For  both,  to  be  sure," 
cried  the  chaplain. —  "  Right,  Frank,"  cried  the  Squire ;  "  for 
may  this  glass  suffocate  me,  but  a  fine  girl  is  worth  all  the 
priestcraft  in  the  creation  !  For  what  are  tithes  and  tricks  but 
an  imposition,  all  a  confounded  imposture  1  —  and  I  can  prove 
it."  —  "I  wish  you  would,"  cried  my  son  Moses;  "and  I 
think,"  continued  he,  "  that  I  should  be  able  to  answer  you." 
—  "  Very  well,  sir,"  cried  the  Squire,  who  immediately  smoked 
him,0  and  winking  on  the  rest  of  the  company  to  prepare  us 
for  the  sport ;  "if  you  are  for  a  cool  argument  upon  that  sub- 
ject, I  am  ready  to  accept  the  challenge.  And,  first,  whether 
are  you  for  managing  it  analogically  or  dialogically  ?"•  —  "! 
am  for  managing  it  rationally,"  cried  Moses,  quite  happy  at 
being  permitted  to  dispute.  —  "Good  again,"  cried  the  Squire  ; 
"  and,  firstly,  of  the  first,  I  hope  you'll  not  deny  that  whatever 
is,  is.  If  you  don't  grant  me  that,  I  can  go  no  further."  - 
"Why,"  returned  Moses,  "I  think  I  may  grant  that,  and 
make  the  best  of  it."  —  "I  hope,  too,"  returned  the  other, 
"you'll  grant  that  a  part  is  less  than  the  whole."-— "I 
grant  that  too,"  cried  Moses  ;  "  it  is  but  just  and  reasonable." 
—  "I  hope,"  cried  the  Squire,  "you  will  not  deny  that  the 
two  angles  of  a  triangle  are  equal  to  two  right  ones."  —  "Noth- 
ing can  be  plainer,"  returned  t'other,  and  looked  round  with  his 
usual  importance.  —  "Very  well,"  cried  the  Squire,  speaking 
very  quick,  "the  premisses  being  thus  settled,  I  proceed  to 
observe  that  the  concatenation  of  self-existences,  proceeding  in 
a  reciprocal  duplicate  ratio,  naturally  produce  a  problematical 
dialogism,  which,  in  some  measure,  proves  that  the  essence  of 
spirituality  may  be  referred  to  the  second  predicable."  —  "  Hold, 
hold  ! "  cried  the  other,  "  I  deny  that.  Do  you  think  that 
I  can  thus  tamely  submit  to  such  heterodox  doctrines  ? "  — 
"What !  "  replied  the  Squire,  as  if  in  a  passion,  "  not  submit  ! 
Answer  me  one  plain  question :  Do  you  think  Aristotle  right 
when  he  says  that  relatives  are  related  1"  —  "  Undoubtedly," 


28  THE     VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

replied  the  other.  —  "  If  so,  then,"  cried  the  Squire,  "  answer  me 
directly  to  what  I  propose  :  Whether  do  you  judge  the  analyt- 
ical investigation  of  the  first  part  of  my  enthymein  deficient 
secundum  quoad,  or  quoad  minus ;  and  give  me  your  reasons  — 
give  me  your  reasons,  I  say,  directly."  —  "I  protest,"  cried 
Moses,  "  I  don't  rightly  comprehend  the  force  of  your  reason- 
ing ;  but  if  it  be  reduced  to  one  simple  proposition,  I  fancy  it 
may  then  have  an  answer."  —  "Oh,  sir,"  cried  the  Squire,  "I 
am  your  most  humble  servant ;  I  find  you  want  me  to  fur- 
nish you  with  argument  and  intellects  too.  No,  sir;  there 
I  protest  you  are  too  hard  for  me."  This  effectually  raised 
the  laugh  against  poor  Moses,  who  sat  the  only  dismal  figure 
in  a  group  of  merry  faces ;  nor  did  he  offer  a  single  syllable 
more  during  the  whole  entertainment. 

But  though  all  this  gave  me  no  pleasure,  it  had  a  very 
different  effect  upon  Olivia,  who  mistook  it  for  humour,  though 
but  a  mere  act  of  the  memory.  She  thought  him,  there- 
fore, a  very  fine  gentleman  ;  and  such  as  consider  what  power- 
ful ingredients  a  good  figure,  fine  clothes,  and  fortune  are 
in  that  character,  will  easily  forgive  her.  Mr.  Thornhill, 
notwithstanding  his  real  ignorance,  talked  with  ease,  and  could 
expatiate  upon  the  common  topics  of  conversation  with  fluency. 
It  is  not  surprising,  then,  that  such  talents  should  win  the 
affections  of  a  girl  who  by  education  was  taught  to  value  an 
appearance  in  herself,  and  consequently  to  set  a  value  upon 
it  in  another. 

Upon  his  departure,  we  again  entered  into  a  debate  upon 
the  merits  of  our  young  landlord.  As  he  directed  his  looks 
and  conversation  to  Olivia,  it  was  no  longer  doubted  but  that 
she  was  the  object  that  induced  him  to  be  our  visitor.  Nor 
did  she  seem  to  be  much  displeased  at  the  innocent  raillery  of 
her  brother  and  sister  upon  this  occasion.  Even  Deborah  her- 
self seemed  to  share  the  glory  of  the  day,  and  exulted  in  her 
daughter's  victory  as  if  it  were  her  own.  "And  now,  my 


A    TOWN    WIT  29 

dear,"  cried  she  to  me,  "111  fairly  own  that  it  was  I  that 
instructed  my  girls  to  encourage  our  landlord's  addresses.  I 
had  always  some  ambition,  and  you  now  see  that  I  was  right ; 
for  who  knows  how  this  may  end?" — "Ay,  who  knows  that 
indeed  !  "  answered  I  with  a  groan :  "for  my  part,  I  don't  much 
like  it ;  and  I  could  have  been  better  pleased  with  one  that 
was  poor  and  honest,  than  this  fine  gentleman  with  his  fortune 
and  infidelity ;  for  depend  on't,  if  he  be  what  I  suspect  him, 
no  freethinker0  shall  ever  have  a  child  of  mine." 

"Sure,  father,"  cried  Moses,  "you  are  too  severe  in  this; 
for  Heaven  will  never  arraign  him  for  what  he  thinks,  but 
for  what  he  does.  Every  man  has  a  thousand  vicious  thoughts, 
which  arise  without  his  power  to  suppress.  Thinking  freely  of 
religion  may  be  involuntary  with  this  gentleman ;  so  that, 
allowing  his  sentiments  to  be  wrong,  yet  as  he  is  purely  passive 
in  his  assent,  he  is  no  more  to  be  blamed  for  his  errors  than  the 
governor  of  a  city  without  walls  for  the  shelter  he  is  obliged  to 
afford  an  invading  enemy." 

"True,  my  son,"  cried  I;  "but  if  the  governor  invites  the 
enemy  there,  he  is  justly  culpable.  And  such  is  always  the 
case  with  those  who  embrace  error.  The  vice  does  not  lie  in 
assenting  to  the  proofs  they  see ;  but  being  blind  to  many  of 
the  proofs  that  offer;  so  that,  though  our  erroneous  opinions 
be  involuntary  when  formed,  yet,  as  we  have  been  wilfully 
corrupt  or  very  negligent  in  forming  them,  we  deserve  punish- 
ment for  our  vice  or  contempt  for  our  folly." 

My  wife  now  kept  up  the  conversation,  though  not  the  argu- 
ment :  she  observed  that  several  very  prudent  men  of  our  ac- 
quaintance were  freethinkers,  and  made  very  good  husbands; 
and  she  knew  some  sensible  girls  that  had  skill  enough  to  make 
converts  of  their  spouses.  "And  who  knows,  my  dear,"  con- 
tinued she,  "  what  Olivia  may  be  able  to  do :  the  girl  has  a 
great  deal  to  say  upon  every  subject,  and  to  my  knowledge  is 
very  well  skilled  in  controversy." 


30  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

"  Why,  my  dear,  what  controversy  can  she  have  read  ? "  cried 
I.  "It  does  not  occur  to  me  that  I  ever  put  such  books  into 
her  hands :  you  certainly  overrate  her  merit."  — "  Indeed, 
papa,"  replied  Olivia,  "she  does  not;  I  have  read  a  great  deal 
of  controversy.  I  have  read  the  disputes  between  Thwackum 
and  Square;0  the  controversy  between  Robinson  Crusoe  and 
Friday  the  savage ;  and  I  am  now  employed  in  reading  the  con- 
troversy in  '  Religious  Courtship.'  "  —  "  Very  well,"  cried  I, 
"that's  a  good  girl;  I  find  you  are  perfectly  qualified  for  mak- 
ing converts,  and  so  go  help  your  mother  to  make  the  goose- 
berry pie." 

CHAPTER  VIII 

An  Amour,  which  promises  little  good  Fortune,  yet  may  be  produc- 
tive of  much 

THE  next  morning  we  were  again  visited  by  Mr.  Burchell, 
though  I  began,  for  certain  reasons,  to  be  displeased  with  the 
frequency  of  his  return ;  but  I  could  not  refuse  him  my  com- 
pany and  fireside.  It  is  true,  his  labour  more  than  requited 
his  entertainment ;  for  he  wrought  among  us  with  vigour,  and, 
either  in  the  meadow  or  at  the  hayrick,  put  himself  foremost. 
Besides,  he  had  always  something  amusing  to  say  that  lessened 
our  toil,  and  was  at  once  so  out  of  the  way,  and  yet  so  sensible, 
that  I  loved,  laughed  at,  and  pitied  him.  My  only  dislike 
arose  from  an  attachment  he  discovered  to  my  daughter.  He 
would,  in  a  jesting  manner,  call  her  his  little  mistress;  and 
when  he  bought  each  of  the  girls  a  set  of  ribands,  hers  was  the 
finest.  I  knew  not  how,  but  he  every  day  seemed  to  become 
more  amiable,  his  wit  to  improve,  and  his  simplicity  to  assume 
the  superior  airs  of  wisdom. 

Our  family  dined  in  the  field,  and  we  sat,  or  rather  reclined, 
round  a  temperate  repast,  our  cloth  spread  upon  the  hay,  while 


AN    UNPROMISING    AMOUR  31 

Mr.  Burchell  gave  cheerfulness  to  the  feast.  To  heighten  our 
satisfaction,  two  blackbirds  answered  each  other  from  opposite 
hedges,  the  familiar  redbreast  came  and  pecked  the  crumbs  from 
our  hands,  and  every  sound  seemed  but  the  echo  of  tranquillity. 
"I  never  sit  thus,"0  says  Sophia,  "but  I  think  of  the  two 
lovers,  so  sweetly  described  by  Mr.  Gay,  who  were  struck  dead 
in  each  other's  arms.  There  is  something  so  pathetic  in  the 
description,  that  I  have  read  it  an  hundred  times  with  new  rap- 
ture."—  "In  my  opinion,"  cried  my  son,  "the  finest  strokes  in 
that  description  are  much  below  those  in  the  '  Acis  and  Galatea ' 
of  Ovid.0  The  Roman  poet  understands  the  use  of  contrast 
better ;  and  upon  that  figure,  artfully  managed,  all  strength  in 
the  pathetic  depends."  —  "It  is  remarkable,"  cried  Mr.  Bur- 
chell, "that  both  the  poets  you  mention  have  equally  contrib- 
uted to  introduce  a  false  taste  into  their  respective  countries,  by 
loading  all  their  lines  with  epithet.0  Men  of  little  genius  found 
them  most  easily  imitated  in  their  defects ;  and  English  poetry, 
like  that  in  the  latter  empire  of  Rome,  is  nothing  at  present 
but  a  combination  of  luxuriant  images,  without  plot  or  connec- 
tion—  a  string  of  epithets  that  improve  the  sound  without 
carrying  on  the  sense.  But,  perhaps,  madam,  while  I  thus  rep- 
rehend others,  you'll  think  it  just  that  I  should  give  them  an 
opportunity  to  retaliate ;  and,  indeed,  I  have  made  this  remark 
only  to  have  an  opportunity  of  introducing  to  the  company  a 
ballad,  which,  whatever  be  its  other  defects,  is,  I  think,  at  least 
free  from  those  I  have  mentioned." 

A  BALLAD0 

"  TURN,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 

With  hospitable  ray. 

"  For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow, 


32  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 
Seem  lengthening  as  I  go." 

"  Forbear,  my  son,"  the  Hermit  cries, 
"  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom ; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

"  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still ; 
And,  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good-will. 

"  Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate'er  my  cell  bestows ; 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 
My  blessing  and  repose. 

"  No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 
To  slaughter  I  condemn ; 

Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 
I  learn  to  pity  them : 

"But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 
A  guiltless  feast  I  bring; 

A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 
And  water  from  the  spring. 

"Then,  pilgrim,  turn ;  thy  cares  forego; 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong  : 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long."0 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends 

His  gentle  accents  fell : 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 

The  lonely  mansion  lay, 
A  refuge  to  the  neighbouring  poor, 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 
Required  a  master's  care ; 

The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 
Received  the  harmless  pair. 


AN    UNPROMISING    AMOUR  33 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 

To  take  their  evening  rest, 
The  Hermit  trimmed  his  little  fire 

And  cheered  his  pensive  guest ; 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 

And  gaily  press'd,  and  smiled, 
And,  skill'd  in  legendary  lore, 

The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around,  in  sympathetic  mirth, 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries, 
The  cricket  chirrups  on  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 

To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe ; 
For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied, 

With  answering  care  oppress'd ; 
And  "  Whence,  unhappy  youth,"  he  cried, 

"  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast? 

"  From  better  habitations  spurn'd, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturn'd, 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 

"  Alas!  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 

Are  trifling,  and  decay ; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things, 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

"  And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep ; 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 

But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep? 

"  And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair  one's  jest; 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

"  For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 
And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said ; 


34  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 
His  love-lorn  guest  betrayed. 

Surprised,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 
Swift  mantling  to  the  view ; 

Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies, 
As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 
Alternate  spread  alarms : 

The  lovely  stranger  stands  confess'd 
A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

And,  "  Ah !  forgive  a  stranger  rude  — 
A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried  ; 

"  Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intrude 
Where  Heaven  and  you  reside. 

"  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray ; 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

"  My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he ; 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  mine  - 

He  had  but  only  me. 

"  To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms 
Unnumber'd  suitors  came, 

Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 
And  felt,  or  feign'd,  a  flame. 

"  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  offers  strove ; 

Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow'd, 
But  never  talked  of  love. 

"  In  humble,  simple  habit  clad, 
No  wealth  nor  power  had  he ; 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

"  And  when,  beside  me  in  the  dale, 
He  caroll'd  lays  of  love, 

His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale, 
And  music  to  the  grove. 


AN    UNPROMISING    AMOUR  35 

"  The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 
Could  nought  of  purity  display 
^  To  emulate  his  mind. 

"  The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 

With  charms  inconstant  shine  : 
Their  charms  were  his,  but,  woe  to  me, 

Their  constancy  was  mine. 

"  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 

Importunate  and  vain ; 
And  while  his  passion  touch'd  my  heart, 

I  triumphed  in  his  pain : 

"  Till,  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride, 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 

"  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 
I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

"  And  there,  forlorn,  despairing,  hid; 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die  ; 
'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I." 

"  Forbid  it,  Heaven!  "  the  Hermit  cried, 

And  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast : 
The  wondering  fair  one  turned  to  chide  — 

'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  press'd ! 

"Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 

Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

"  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign : 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life,  — my  all  that's  mine? 

"  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We'll  live  and  love  so  true, 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too." 


36  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

While  this  ballad  was  reading,  Sophia  seemed  to  mix  an  air 
of  tenderness  with  her  approbation.  But  our  tranquillity  was 
soon  disturbed  by  the  report  of  a  gun  just  by  us,  and  immedi- 
ately after  a  man  was  seen  bursting  through  the  hedge  to  take 
up  the  game  he  had  killed.  This  sportsman  was  the  Squire's 
chaplain,  who  had  shot  one  of  the  blackbirds  that  so  agree- 
ably entertained  us.  So  loud  a  report,  and  so  near,  startled 
my  daughters  ;  and  I  could  perceive  that  Sophia,  in  the  fright, 
had  thrown  herself  into  Mr.  Burchell's  arms  for  protection. 
The  gentleman  came  up,  and  asked  pardon  for  having  disturbed 
us,  affirming  that  he  was  ignorant  of  our  being  so  near.  He 
therefore  sat  down  by  my  youngest  daughter,  and,  sportsman- 
like, offered  her  what  he  had  killed  that  morning.  She  was 
going  to  refuse,  but  a  private  look  from  her  mother  soon  induced 
her  to  correct  the  mistake,  and  accept  his  present,  though  with 
some  reluctance.  My  wife,  as  usual,  discovered  her  pride  in  a 
whisper,  observing  that  Sophy  had  made  a  conquest  of  the 
chaplain,  as  well  as  her  sister  had  of  the  Squire.  I  suspected, 
however,  with  more  probability,  that  her  affections  were  placed 
upon  a  different  object.  The  chaplain's  errand  was  to  inform 
us  that  Mr.  Thornhill  had  provided  music  and  refreshments ; 
and  intended  that  night  giving  the  young  ladies  a  ball  by 
moonlight  on  the  grass  plat  before  our  door.  "  Nor  can  I 
deny,"  continued  he,  "  but  I  have  an  interest  in  being  first  to 
deliver  this  message,  as  I  expect  for  my  reward  to  be  honoured 
with  Miss  Sophy's  hand  as  a  partner."  To  this  my  girl  replied 
that  she  should  have  no  objection,  if  she  could  do  it  with 
honour  ;  "  But  here,"  continued  she,  "is  a  gentleman,"  looking 
at  Mr.  Burchell,  "  who  has  been  my  companion  in  the  task  for 
the  day,  and  it  is  fit  he  should  share  in  its  amusements."  Mr. 
Burchell  returned  her  a  compliment  for  her  intentions,  but 
resigned  her0  up  to  the  chaplain ;  adding  that  he  was  to  go 
that  night  five  miles,  being  invited  to  a  harvest  supper.  His 
refusal  appeared  to  me  a  little  extraordinary ;  nor  could  I  con- 


TWO    LADIES    OF   DISTINCTION  37 

ceive  how  so  sensible  a  girl  as  my  youngest  could  thus  prefer  a 
man  of  broken  fortunes  to  one  whose  expectations  were  much 
greater.  But  as  men  are  most  capable  of  distinguishing  merit 
in  women,  so  the  ladies  often  form  the  truest  judgments  of  us. 
The  two  sexes  seem  placed  as  spies  upon  each  other,  and  are 
furnished  with  different  abilities,  adapted  for  mutual  inspection. 


CHAPTER   IX 

Two  Ladies  of  great  Distinction  introduced.     Superior  Finery  ever 
seems  to  confer  superior  Breeding 

MR.  BUECHELL  had  scarce  taken  leave,  and  Sophia  con- 
sented to  dance  with  the  chaplain,  when  my  little  ones  came 
running  out  to  tell  us,  that  the  Squire  was  come  with  a  crowd 
of  company.  Upon  our  return,  we  found  our  landlord  with  a 
couple  of  under  gentlemen0  and  two  young  ladies  richly  dressed, 
whom  he  introduced  as  women  of  very  great  distinction  and 
fashion  from  town.  We  happened  not  to  have  chairs  enough 
for  the  whole  company;  but  Mr.  Thornhill  immediately  pro- 
posed, that  every  gentleman  should  sit  in  a  lady's  lap.  This 
I  positively  objected  to,  notwithstanding  a  look  of  disapproba- 
tion from  my  wife.  Moses  was  therefore  despatched  to  borrow 
a  couple  of  chairs  ;  and  as  we  were  in  want  of  ladies  to  make 
up  a  set  at  country-dances,  the  two  gentlemen  went  with  him 
in  quest  of  a  couple  of  partners.  Chairs  and  partners  were 
soon  provided.  The  gentlemen  returned  with  my  neighbour 
Flamborough's  rosy  daughters,  flaunting  with  red  top-knots ; 
but  an  unlucky  circumstance  was  not  adverted  to,  —  though  the 
Miss  Flamboroughs  were  reckoned  the  very  best  dancers  in  the 
parish,  and  understood  the  jig  and  roundabout  to  perfection, 
yet  they  were  totally  unacquainted  with  country-dances.  This 
at  first  discomposed  us  :  however,  after  a  little  shoving  and 


38  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

dragging,  they  at  last  went  merrily  on.  Our  music  consisted 
of  two  fiddles,  with  a  pipe  and  tabor.  The  moon  shone  bright. 
Mr.  Thornhill  and  my  eldest  daughter  led  up  the  ball,  to  the 
great  delight  of  the  spectators ;  for  the  neighbours,  hearing 
what  was  going  forward,  came  flocking  about  us.  My  girl 
moved  with  so  much  grace  and  vivacity,  that  my  wife  could 
not  avoid  discovering  the  pride  of  her  heart  by  assuring  me 
that,  though  the  little  chit  did  it  so  cleverly,  all  the  steps  were 
stolen  from  herself.  The  ladies  of  the  town  strove  hard  to  be 
equally  easy,  but  without  success.  They  swam,  sprawled,  lan- 
guished, and  frisked  ;  but  all  would  not  do  :  the  gazers  indeed 
owned  that  it  was  fine ;  but  neighbour  Flamborough  observed 
that  Miss  Livy's  feet  seemed  as  pat  to  the  music  as  its  echo. 
After  the  dance  had  continued  about  an  hour,  the  two  ladies, 
who  were  apprehensive  of  catching  cold,  moved  to  break  up  the 
ball.  One  of  them,  I  thought,  expressed  her  sentiments  upon 
this  occasion  in  a  very  coarse  manner,  when  she  observed  that, 
"by  the  living  jingo,  she  was  all  of  a  muck  of  sweat."  Upon 
our  return  to  the  house,  we  found  a  very  elegant  cold  supper, 
which  Mr.  Thornhill  had  ordered  to  be  brought  with  him. 
The  conversation  at  this  time  was  more  reserved  than  before. 
The  two  ladies  threw  my  girls  into  the  shade ;  for  they  would 
talk  of  nothing  but  high  life,  and  high-lived  company;  with 
other  fashionable  topics,  such  as  pictures,  taste,  Shakespeare, 
and  the  musical  glasses.0  'Tis  true  they  once  or  twice  mortified 
us  sensibly  by  slipping  out  an  oath ;  but  that  appeared  to  me 
as  the  surest  symptom  of  any  distinction  (though  I  am  since 
informed  that  swearing  is  perfectly  unfashionable).0  Their 
finery,  however,  threw  a  veil  over  any  grossness  in  their  con- 
versation. My  daughters  seemed  to  regard  their  superior 
accomplishments  with  envy ;  and  what  appeared  amiss,  was 
ascribed  to  tip-top  quality  breeding.  But  the  condescension 
of  the  ladies  was  still  superior  to  their  accomplishments.  One 
of  them  observed,  that  had  Miss  Olivia  seen  a  little  more  of 


TWO   LADIES    OF   DISTINCTION  39 

the  world,  it  would  greatly  improve  her ;  to  which  the  other 
added,  that  a  single  winter  in  town  would  make  her  little 
Sophia  quite  another  thing.  My  wife  warmly  assented  to 
both ;  adding,  that  there  was  nothing  she  more  ardently  wished 
than  to  give  her  girls  a  single  winter's  polishing.  To  this  I 
could  not  help  replying,  that  their  breeding  was  already  supe- 
rior to  their  fortune ;  and  that  greater  refinement  would  only 
serve  to  make  their  poverty  ridiculous,  and  give  them  a  taste 
for  pleasures  they  had  no  right  to  possess.  "  And  what  pleas- 
ures," cried  Mr.  Thornhill,  "  do  they  not  deserve  to  possess, 
who  have  so  much  in  their  power  to  bestow?  As  for  my  part," 
continued  he,  "  my  fortune  is  pretty  large ;  love,  liberty,  and 
pleasure  are  my  maxims ;  but  curse  me,  if  a  settlement  of  half 
my  estate  could  give  my  charming  Olivia  pleasure,  it  should  be 
hers ;  and  the  only  favour  I  would  ask  in  return  would  be  to 
add  myself  to  the  benefit."  I  was  not  such  a  stranger  to  the 
world  as  to  be  ignorant  that  this  was  the  fashionable  cant  to 
disguise  the  insolence  of  the  basest  proposal ;  but  I  made  an 
effort  to  suppress  my  resentment.  "  Sir,"  cried  I,  "  the  family 
which  you  now  condescend  to  favour  with  your  company  has 
been  bred  with  as  nice  a  sense  of  honour  as  you.  Any  attempts 
to  injure  that  may  be  attended  with  very  dangerous  conse- 
quences. Honour,  sir,  is  our  only  possession  at  present,  and  of 
that  last  treasure  we  must  be  particularly  careful."  I  was  soon 
sorry  for  the  warmth  with  which  I  had  spoken  this,  when  the 
young  gentleman,  grasping  my  hand,  swore  he  commended  my 
spirit,  though  he  disapproved  my  suspicions.  "As  to  your 
present  hint,"  continued  he,  "I  protest  nothing  was  farther 
from  my  heart  than  such  a  thought.  No,  by  all  that's  tempt- 
ing !  the  virtue  that  will  stand  a  regular  siege  was  never  to  my 
taste ;  for  all  my  amours  are  carried  by  a  coup  de  main."  c 

The  two  ladies,  who  affected  to  be  ignorant  of  the  rest, 
seemed  highly  displeased  with  this  last  stroke  of  freedom,  and 
began  a  very  discreet  and  serious  dialogue  upon  virtue :  in  this, 


40  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

my  wife,  the  chaplain,  and  I,  soon  joined ;  and  the  Squire  him- 
self was  at  last  brought  to  confess  a  sense  of  sorrow  for  his 
former  excesses.  We  talked  of  the  pleasures  of  temperance, 
and  of  the  sunshine  in  the  mind  unpolluted  with  guilt.  I  was 
so  well  pleased,  that  my  little  ones  were  kept  up  beyond  the 
usual  time  to  be  edified  by  so  much  good  conversation.  Mr. 
Thornhill  even  went  beyond  me,  and  demanded  if  I  had  any 
objection  to  giving  prayers.  I  joyfully  embraced  the  proposal ; 
and  in  this  manner  the  night  was  passed  in  the  most  comfort- 
able way,  till  at  last  the  company  began  to  think  of  returning. 
The  ladies  seemed  very  unwilling  to  part  with  my  daughters, 
for  whom  they  had  conceived  a  particular  affection,  and  joined 
in  a  request  to  have  the  pleasure  of  their  company  home.  The 
Squire  seconded  the  proposals,  and  my  wife  added  her  entreaties ; 
the  girls,  too,  looked  upon  me  as  if  they  wished  to  go.  In  this 
perplexity,  I  made  two  or  three  excuses,  which  my  daughters 
as  readily  removed  ;  so  that  at  last  I  was  obliged  to  give  a 
peremptory  refusal,  for  which  we  had  nothing  but  sullen  looks 
and  short  answers  the  whole  day  ensuing. 


CHAPTER   X 

The  Family  endeavour  to  cope  with  their  Betters.     The  Miseries  of 
the  Poor  when  they  attempt  to  appear  above  their  Circumstances 

I  NOW  began  to  find  that  all  my  long  and  painful  lectures 
upon  temperance,  simplicity,  and  contentment  were  entirely 
disregarded.  The  distinctions  lately  paid  us  by  our  betters 
awakened  that  pride  which  I  had  laid  raskep,  but  not  jemoved. 
Our  windows  again,  as  formerly,  were  filled  with  washes  for  the 
neck  and  face.  The  sun  was  dreaded  as  an  enemy  to  the  skin 
without  doors,  and  the  fire  as  a  spoiler  of  the  complexion 


THE   FAMILY    COPE    WITH    THEIR    BETTERS       41 

within.  My  wife  observed  that  rising  too  early  would  hurt 
her  daughters'  eyes,  that  working  after  dinner  would  redden 
their  noses  ;  and  she  convinced  me  that  the  hands  aever  looked 
so  white  as  when  they  did  nothing.  Instead  therefore  of  finish- 
ing George's  shirts,  we  now  had  them  new-modelling  their  old 
gauzes,  or  flourishing  upon  catgut.0  The  poor  Miss  Flam- 
boroughs,  their  former  gay  companions,  were  cast  off  as  mean 
acquaintance,  and  the  whole  conversation  ran  upon  high  life,  and 
high-lived  company,  with  pictures,  taste,  Shakespeare,  and  the 
musical  glasses. 

But  we  could  have  borne  all  this,  had  not  a  fortune-telling 
gipsy  come  to  raise  us  into  perfect  sublimity.  The  tawny  sibyl 
no  sooner  appeared,  than  my  girls  came  running  to  me  for  a 
shilling  a-piece  to  cross  her  hand  with  silver.  To  say  the  truth, 

J^I  was  tired  of  being  always  wise,  and  could  not  help  gratifying 
their  request,  because  I  loved  to  see  them  happy.  I  gave  each 
of  them  a  shilling ;  though  for  the  honour  of  the  family  it  must 
be  observed,  that  they  never  went  without  money  themselves, 
as  my  wife  always  generously  let  them  have  a  guinea  each,  to 

f  }  keep  in  their  pockets,  but  with  strict  injunctions  never  to  change 
it.  After  they  had  been  closeted  up  with  the  fortune-teller  for 
some  time,  I  knew  by  their  looks,  upon  their  returning,  that 
they  had  been  promised  something  great.  "Well,  my  girls, 
how  have  you  sped  ?  Tell  me,  Livy,  has  the  fortune-teller  given 
thee  a  penny  worth  ?"-  —  "  I  protest,  papa,"  says  the  girl,  "I 
believe  she  deals  with  somebody  that's  not  right ;  for  she  posi- 
tively declared,  that  I  am  to  be  married  to  a  Squire  in  less  than 
a  twelvemonth !"•  — " Well,  now,  Sophy,  my  child,"  said  I, 
"and  what  sort  of  a  husband  are  you  to  have  ?"-  —  "  Sir," 
replied  she,  "I  am  to  have  a  Lord  soon  after  my  sister  has 
married  the  Squire."  —  "  How  ! "  cried  I,  "is  that  all  you  are  to 
have  for  your  two  shillings?  Only  a  Lord  and  a  Squire  for 
two  shillings  1  You  fools,  I  could  have  promised  you  a  Prince 
and  a  Nabob0  for  half  the  money." 


42  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

This  curiosity  of  theirs,  however,  was  attended  with  very  seri- 
ous effects  :  we  now  began  to  think  ourselves  designed  by  the 
stars  to  something  exalted,  and  already  anticipated  our  future 
grandeur. 

It  has  been  a  thousand  times  observed,  and  I  must  observe 
it  once  more,  that  the  hours  we  pass  with  happy  prospects  in 
view,  are  more  pleasing  than  those  crowned  with  fruition.  In 
the  first  case,  we  cook  the  dish  to  our  own  appetite;  in  the 
latter,  Nature  cooks  it  for  us.  It  is  impossible  to  repeat  the 
train  of  agreeable  reveries  we  called  up  for  our  entertainment. 
We  looked  upon  our  fortunes  as  once  more .  rising ;  and,  as  the 
whole  parish  asserted  that  the  Squire  was  in  love  with  my 
daughter,  she  was  actually  so  with  him ;  for  they  persuaded  her 
into  the  passion.  In  this  agreeable  interval  my  wife  had  the 
most  lucky  dreams  in  the  world,  which  she  took  care  to  tell  us 
every  morning  with  great  solemnity  and  exactness.  It  was  one 
night  a  coffin  and  cross-bones,  the  sign  of  an  approaching  wed- 
ding; at  another  time  she  imagined  her  daughters'  pockets 
filled  with  farthings,  a  certain  sign  of  their  being  shortly  stuffed 
with  gold.  The  girls  themselves  had  their  omens.  They  felt 
strange  kisses  on  their  lips ;  they  saw  rings  in  the  candle ; 
purses  bounced  from  the  fire,  and  true-love-knots  lurked  in  the 
bottom  of  every  teacup. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  week  we  received  a  card  from  the 
two  ladies,  in  which,  with  their  compliments,  they  hoped  to  see 
all  our  family  at  church  the  Sunday  following.  All  Saturday 
morning  I  could  perceive,  in  consequence  of  this,  my  wife  and 
daughters  in  close  conference  together,  and  now  and  then  glanc- 
ing at  me  with  looks  that  betrayed  a  latent  plot.  To  be  sin- 
cere, I  had  strong  suspicions  that  some  absurd  proposal  was 
preparing  for  appearing  with  splendour  the  next  day.  In  the 
evening  they  began  their  operations  in  a  very  regular  manner, 
and  my  wife  undertook  to  conduct  the  siege.  After  tea,  when 
I  seemed  in  spirits,  she  began  thus :  "I  fancy,  Charles,  my 


THE    FAMILY    COPE    WITH    THEIR    BETTERS        43 

dear,  we  shall  have  a  great  deal  of  good  company  at  our 
church  to-morrow." —  "Perhaps  we  may,  my  dear,"  returned  I, 
"though  you  need  be  under  no  uneasiness  about  that;  you 
shall  have  a  sermon  whether  there  be  or  not."  —  "That  is 
what  I  expect,"  returned  she;  "but  I  think,  my  dear,  we  ought 
to  appear  there  as  decently  as  possible,  for  who  knows  what 
may  happen?" — "Your  precautions,"  replied  I,  "are  highly 
commendable.  A  decent  behaviour  and  appearance  in  church 
is  what  charms  me.  We  should  be  devout  and  humble,  cheer- 
ful and  serene."  —  "  Yes,"  cried  she,  "  I  know  that ;  but  I 
mean  we  should  go  there  in  as  proper  a  manner  as  possible; 
not  altogether  like  the  scrubs  about  us."  —  "You  are  quite 
right,  my  dear,"  returned  I,  "and  I  was  going  to  make  the  very 
same  proposal.  The  proper  manner  of  going  is  to  go  there  as 
early  as  possible,  to  have  time  for  meditation  before  the  service 
begins." — "Phoo,  Charles,"  interrupted  she,  "all  that  is  very 
true ;  but  not  what  I  would  be  at :  I  mean,  we  should  go  there 
genteelly.  You  know  the  church  is  two  miles  off,  and  I  pro- 
test I  don't  like  to  see  my  daughters  trudging  up  to  their  pew 
all  blowzed  and  red  with  walking,  and  looking  for  all  the  world 
as  if  they  had  been  winners  at  ajsmock  race.0  Now,  my  dear, 
my  proposal  is  this :  there  are  our  two  plough-horses,  the  Colt 
that  has  been  in  our  family  these  nine  years,  and  his  compan- 
ion Blackberry,  that  has  scarce  done  an  earthly  thing  for  this 
month  past.  They  are  both  grown  fat  and  lazy.  Why  should 
not  they  do  something  as  well  as  we?  And  let  me  tell  you, 
when  Moses  has  trimmed  them  a  little,  they  will  cut  a  very 
tolerable  figure." 

To  this  proposal  I  objected  that  walking  would  be  twenty 
times  more  genteel  than  such  a  paltry  conveyance,  as  Black- 
berry was  wall-eyed,  and  the  Colt  wanted  a  tail;  that  they 
had  never  been  broke  to  the  rein,  but  had  a  hundred  vicious 
tricks ;  and  that  we  had  but  one  saddle  and  pillion  in  the  whole 
house.  All  these  objections,  however,  were  overruled  ;  so  that  I 


44  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

was  obliged  to  comply.  The  next  morning  I  perceived  them 
not  a  little  busy  in  collecting  such  materials  as  might  be  neces- 
sary for  the  expedition  ;  but,  as  I  found  it  would  be  a  business 
of  time,  I  walked  on  to  the  church  before,  and  they  promised 
speedily  to  follow.  I  waited  near  an  hour  in  the  reading  desk 
for  their  arrival ;  but  not  finding  them  come  as  expected,  I  was 
obliged  to  begin,  and  went  through  the  service,  not  without 
some  uneasiness  at  finding  them  absent.  This  was  increased 
when  all  was  finished,  and  no  appearance  of  the  family.  I 
therefore  walked  back  by  the  horse-way,  which  was  five  miles 
round,  though  the  footway  was  but  two,  and,  when  got  about 
half-way  home,  perceived  the  procession  marching  slowly  for- 
ward towards  the  church ;  my  son,  my  wife,  and  the  two  little 
ones  exalted  on  one  horse,  and  my  two  daughters  upon  the 
other.  I  demanded  the  cause  of  their  delay ;  but  I  soon  found 
by  their  looks  they  had  met  with  a  thousand  misfortunes  on  the 
road.  The  horses  had  at  first  refused  to  move  from  the  door, 
till  Mr.  Burchell  was  kind  enough  to  beat  them  forward  for 
about  two  hundred  yards  with  his  cudgel.  Next,  the  straps  of 
my  wife's  pillion  broke  down,  and  they  were  obliged  to  stop  to 
repair  them  before  they  could  proceed.  After  that,  one  of  the 
horses  took  it  into  his  head  to  stand  still,  and  neither  blows  nor 
entreaties  could  prevail  with  him  to  proceed.  It  was  just  re- 
covering from  this  dismal  situation  that  I  found  them  ;  but  per- 
ceiving everything  safe,  I  own  their  present  mortification  did 
not  much  displease  me,  as  it  would  give  me  many  opportunities 
of  future  triumph,  and  teach  my  daughters  more  humility. 

CHAPTER  XI 

The  Family  still  resolve  to  hold  up  their  Heads 

MICHAELMAS-EVE  happening  on  the  next  day,  we  were  in- 
vited to  burn  nuts  and  play  tricks  at  neighbour  Flamborough's. 


THEY   STILL    HOLD    UP    THEIE    HEADS  45 

Our  late  mortifications  had  humbled  us  a  little,  or  it  is  probable 
we  might  have  rejected  such  an  invitation  with  contempt :  how- 
ever, we  suffered  ourselves  to  be  happy.  Our  honest  neigh- 
bour's goose  and  dumplings  were  fine,  and  the  lamb's-wool,° 
even  in  the  opinion  of  my  wife,  who  was  a  connoisseur,  was  ex- 
cellent. It  is  true,  his  manner  of  telling  stories  was  not  quite 
so  well.  They  were  very  long,  and  very  dull,  and  all  about 
himself,  and  we  had  laughed  at  them  ten  times  before:  how- 
ever, we  were  kind  enough  to  laugh  at  them  once  more. 

Mr.  Burchell,  who  was  of  the  party,  was  always  fond  of  see- 
ing some  innocent  amusement  going  forward,  and  set  the  boys 
and  girls  to  blind-man's-buff.  My  wife,  too,  was  persuaded  to 
join  in  the  diversion,  and  it  gave  me  pleasure  to  think  she  was 
not  yet  too  old.  In  the  meantime,  my  neighbour  and  I  looked 
on,  laughed  at  every  feat,  and  praised  our  own  dexterity  when 
we  were  young.  Hot  cockles0  succeeded  next,  questions  and 
commands  followecPthat,  and,  last  of  all,  they  sat  down  to 
hunt  the  slipper.  As  every  person  may  not  be  acquainted  with 
this  primeval  pastime,  it  may  be  necessary  to  observe,  that  the 
company  at  this  play  plant  themselves  in  a  ring  upon  the  ground, 
all  except  one,  who  stands  in  the  middle,  whose  business  it  is 
to  catch  a  shoe,  which  the  company  shove  about  under  their 
hams  from  one  to  another,  something  like  a  weaver's  shuttle. 
As  it  is  impossible,  in  this  case,  for  the  lady  who  is  up  to  face 
all  the  company  at  once,  the  great  beauty  of  the  play  lies  in  hit- 
ting her  a  thump  with  the  heel  of  the  shoe  on  that  side  least 
capable  of  making  a  defence.  It  was  in  this  manner  that  my 
eldest  daughter  was  hemmed  in,  and  thumped  about,  all  blowzed, 
in  spirits,  and  bawling  for  "fair  play,"  with  a  voice  that 
might  deafen  a  ballad-singer,  when,  confusion  on  confusion  ! 
who  should  enter  the  room  but  our  two  great  acquaintances 
from  town,  Lady  Blarney  and  Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia 
Skeggs  !  Description  would  but  beggar,  therefore  it  is  unneces- 
sary to  describe,  this  new  mortification.  Death  !  To  be  seen 


46  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

by  ladies  of  such  high  breeding  in  such  vulgar  attitudes  !  Noth- 
ing better  could  ensue  from  such  a  vulgar  play  of  Mr.  Flambo- 
rough's  proposing.  We  seemed  struck  to  the  ground  for  some 
^  time,  as  if  actually  petrified  with  amazement. 

The  two  ladies  had  been  at  our  house  to  see  us,  and  finding 
us  from  home,  came  after  us  hither,  as  they  were  uneasy  to 
know  what  accident  could  have  kept  us  from  church  the  day 
before.  Olivia  undertook  to  be  our  prolocutor,  and  delivered 
the  whole  in  a  summary  way,  only  saying,  "  We  were  thrown 
from  our  horses."  At  which  account  the  ladies  were  greatly 
concerned ;  but  being  told  the  family  received  no  hurt,  they 
were  extremely  glad ;  but  being  informed  that  we  were  almost 
killed  by  the  fright,  they  were  vastly  sorry ;  but  hearing  that 
we  had  a  very  good  night,  they  were  extremely  glad  again. 
Nothing  could  exceed  their  complaisance  to  my  daughters  :  their 
professions  the  last  evening  were  warm,  but  now  they  were  ardent. 
They  protested  a  desire  of  having  a  more  lasting  acquaint- 
ance. Lady  Blarney  was  particularly  attached  to  Olivia ;  Miss 
Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs  (I  love  to  give  the  whole 
name)0  took  a  greater  fancy  to  her  sister.  They  supported  the 
conversation  between  themselves,  while  my  daughters  sat  silent, 
admiring  their  exalted  breeding.  But  as  every  reader,  however 
beggarly  himself,  is  fond  of  high-lived  dialogues,  with  anecdotes 
of  Lords,  Ladies,  and  Knights  of  the  Garter,  I  must  beg  leave 
to  give  him  the  concluding  part  of  the  present  conversation. 

"  All  that  I  know  of  the  matter,"  cried  Miss  Skeggs,  "  is  this, 
that  it  may  be  true  or  may  not  be  true ;  but  this  I  can  assure 
your  Ladyship,  that  the  whole  rout0  was  in  amaze :  his  Lord- 
ship turned  all  manner  of  colours,  my  Lady  fell  into  a  j,qund,° 
but  Sir  Tomkyn,  drawing  his  sword,  swore  he  was  hers  to  the 
last  drop  of  his  blood." 

"Well,"  replied  our  Peeress,  "this  I  can  say,  that  the 
Duchess  never  told  me  a  syllable  of  the  matter,  and  I  believe 
her  Grace  would  keep  nothing  a  secret  from  me.  This  you  may 


THEY   STILL    HOLD    UP    THEIR    HEADS  47 

depend  upon  as  fact,  that  the  next  morning  my  Lord  Duke 
cried  out  three  times  to  his  valet-de-chambre,  '  Jernigan  !  Jerni- 
gan  !  Jernigan  !  bring  me  my  garters.'  " 

But  previously  I  should  have  mentioned  the  very  impolite 
behaviour  of  Mr.  Burchell,  who,  during  this  discourse,  sat  with 
his  face  turned  to  the  fire,  and,  at  the  conclusion  of  every 
sentence,  would  cry  out  "Fudge!"  an  expression  which  dis- 
pleased us  all,  and,  in  some  measure,  damped  the  rising  spirit 
of  the  conversation. 

"Besides,  my  dear  Skeggs,"  continued  our  Peeress,  " there  is 
nothing  of  this  in  the  copy  of  verses  that  Dr.  Burdock0  made 
upon  the  occasion."  -—  "Fudge  I " 

" I  am  surprised  at  that,"  cried  Miss  Skeggs  :  "for  he  seldom 
leaves  anything  out,0  as  he  writes  only  for  his  own  amusement. 
But  can  your  Ladyship  favour  me  with  a  sight  of  them  ? " 
"Fudge!" 

"My  dear  creature,"  replied  our  Peeress,  "do  you  think  I 
carry  such  things  about  me  ?  Though  they  are  very  fine,  to  be 
sure,  and  I  think  myself  something  of  a  judge  —  at  least  I  know 
what  pleases  myself.  Indeed,  I  was  ever  an  admirer  of  all  Dr. 
Burdock's  little  pieces;  for  except  what  he  does,  and  our  dear 
Countess  at  Hanover  Square,  there's  nothing  comes  out  but  the 
most  lowest  stuff  in  nature ;  not  a  bit  of  high  life  among  them." 
—  "Fudge  !  " 

"Your  Ladyship  should  except,"  says  the  other,  "your  own 
things  in  the  Lady's  Magazine.0  I  hope  you'll  say  there's 
nothing  low-lived  there  ?  But  I  suppose  we  are  to  have  no 
more  from  that  quarter  ? "  -  —  "Fudge  /" 

"Why,  my  dear,"  says  the  lady,  "you  know  my  reader  and 
companion  has  left  me,  to  be  married  to  Captain  Roach,  and  as 
my  poor  eyes  won't  suffer  me  to  write  myself,  I  have  been  for 
some  time  looking  out  for  another.  A  proper  person  is  no  easy 
matter  to  find ;  and,  to  be  sure,  thirty  pounds  a  year  is  a  small 
stipend  for  a  well-bred  girl  of  character,  that  can  read,  write, 


48  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

and  behave  in  company :  as  for  the  chits  about  town,  there  is 
no  bearing  them  about  one."  —  "Fudge  !  " 

"That  I  know,"  cried  Miss  Skeggs,  "by  experience.  For  of 
the  three  companions  I  had  this  last  half  year,  one  of  them 
refused  to  do  plain- work  an  hour  in  the  day ;  another  thought 
twenty-five  guineas  a  year  too  small  a  salary ;  and  I  was  obliged 
to  send  away  the  third,  because  I  suspected  an  intrigue  with  the 
chaplain.  Virtue,  my  dear  Lady  Blarney,  virtue  is  worth  any 
price;  but  where  is  that  to  be  found ? "  —  "Fudge ! " 

My  wife  had  been,  for  a  long  time,  all  attention  to  this  dis- 
course, but  was  particularly  struck  with  the  latter  part  of  it. 
Thirty  pounds  and  twenty-five  guineas  a  year,  made  fifty-six 
pounds  five  shillings  English  money,  all  which  was  in  a 
manner  going  a-begging,  and  might  easily  be  secured  in  the 
family.  She  for  a  moment  studied  my  looks  for  approbation ; 
and,  to  own  a  truth,  I  was  of  opinion  that  two  such  places 
would  fit  our  two  daughters  exactly.  Besides,  if  the  Squire 
had  any  real  affection  for  my  eldest  daughter,  this  would  be  the 
way  to  make  her  every  way  qualified  for  her  fortune.  My  wife, 
therefore,  was  resolved  that  we  should  not  be  deprived  of  such 
advantages  for  want  of  assurance,0  and  undertook  to  harangue 
for  the  family.  "  I  hope,"  cried  she,  "your  Ladyships  will 
pardon  my  present  presumption.  It  is  true,  we  have  no  right 
to  pretend  to  such  favours ;  but  yet  it  is  natural  for  me  to  wish 
putting  my  children  forward  in  the  world.  And,  I  will  be  bold 
to  say,  my  two  girls  have  had  a  pretty  good  education  and  capacity; 
at  least  the  country  can't  show  better.  They  can  read,  write, 
and  cast  accounts ;  they  understand  their  needle,  bread-stitch, 
cross  and  change,  and  all  manner  of  plain-work ;  °  they  can  pink, 
point,  and  frill,  and  know  something  of  music ;  they  can  do  up 
smallclothes,0  work  upon  catgut ;  my  eldest  can  cut  paper,0  and 
my  youngest  has  a  very  pretty  manner  of  telling  fortunes  upon 
the  cards."  —  "Fudge!" 

When  she  had  delivered  this  pretty  piece  of  eloquence,  the 


FORTUNE    HUMBLES    THEM  49 

two  ladies  looked  at  each  other  a  few  minutes  in  silence,  with 
an  air  of  doubt  and  importance.  At  last  Miss  Carolina  Wilhel- 
mina  Amelia  Skeggs  condescended  to  observe  that  the  young 
ladies,  from  the  opinion  she  could  form  of  them  from  so  slight 
an  acquaintance,  seemed  very  fit  for  such  employments.  "  But 
a  thing  of  this  kind,  madam,"  cried  she,  addressing  my  spouse, 
"  requires  a  thorough  examination  into  characters,  and  a  more 
perfect  knowledge  of  each  other.  Not,  madam,"  continued  she, 
"  that  I  in  the  least  suspect  the  young  ladies'  virtue,  prudence, 
and  discretion ;  but  there  is  a  form  in  these  things,  madam  — 
there  is  a  form." 

My  wife  approved  her  suspicions  very  much,  observing  that 
she  was  very  apt  to  be  suspicious  herself,  but  referred  her  to  all 
the  neighbours  for  a  character ;  but  this  our  Peeress  declined  as 
unnecessary,  alleging  that  "  our  cousin  Thornhill's  "  recommenda- 
tion would  be  sufficient ;  and  upon  this  we  rested  our  petition. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Fortune  seems  resolved  to  humble  the  Family  of  Wakejield.     Mor- 
tifications are  often  more  painful  than  real  Calamities 

WHEN  we  returned  Jiome,  the  night  was  dedicated  to  schemes 
of  future  conquest.  Deborah  exerted  much  sagacity  in  conjectur- 
ing which  of  the  two  girls  was  likely  to  have  the  best  place,  and 
most  opportunities  of  seeing  good  company.  The  only  obstacle 
to  our  preferment  was  in  obtaining  the  Squire's  recommendation ; 
but  he  had  already  shown  us  too  many  instances  of  his  friendship 
to  doubt  of  it  now.  Even  in  bed  my  wife  kept  up  the  usual 
theme :  "  Well,  faith,  my  dear  Charles,  between  ourselves,  I 
think  we  have  made  an  excellent  day's  work  of  it."  —  "  Pretty 
well !  "  cried  I,  not  knowing  what  to  say.  —  "  What,  only  pretty 
well ! "  returned  she :  "  I  think  it  is  very  well.  Suppose  the  girls 


50  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

should  come  to  make  acquaintances  of  taste  in  town  !  This  I 
am  assured  of,  that  London  is  the  only  place  in  the  world  for 
all  manner  of  husbands.  Besides,  my  dear,  stranger  things  hap- 
pen every  day :  and  as  ladies  of  quality  are  so  taken  with  my 
daughters,  what  will  not  men  of  quality  be  1  Entre  nous,0  I 
protest  I  like  my  Lady  Blarney  vastly  — so  very  obliging.  How- 
ever, Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs  has  my  warm 
heart.  But  yet,  when  they  came  to  talk  of  places  in  town,  you 
saw  at  once  how  I  nailed  them.  Tell  me,  my  dear,  don't  you 
think  I  did  for  my  children  there?"-  — "Ay,"  returned  I,  not 
knowing  well  what  to  think  of  the  matter ;  "  Heaven  grant 
they  may  be  both  the  better  for  it  this  day  three  months ! " 
This  was  one  of  those  observations  I  usually  made  to  impress 
my  wife  with  an  opinion  of  my  sagacity :  for  if  the  girls  suc- 
ceeded, then  it  was  a  pious  wish  fulfilled ;  but  if  anything  un- 
fortunate ensued,  then  it  might  be  looked  upon  as  a  prophecy. 
All  this  conversation,  however,  was  only  preparatory  to  another 
scheme ;  and  indeed  I  dreaded  as  much.  This  was  nothing  less 
than  that,  as  we  were  now  to  hold  up  our  heads  a  little  higher 
in  the  world,  it  would  be  proper  to  sell  the  Colt,  which  was 
grown  old,  at  a  neighbouring  fair,  and  buy  us  a  horse  that 
would  carry  a  single  or  double  upon  an  occasion,  and  make  a 
pretty  appearance  at  church,  or  upon  a  visit.  This  at  first  I 
opposed  stoutly ;  but  it  was  stoutly  defended.  However,  as  I 
weakened,  my  antagonist  gained  strength,  till  at  last  it  was 
resolved  to  part  with  him. 

As  the  fair  happened  on  the  following  day,  I  had  intentions 
of  going  myself;  but  my  wife  persuaded  me  that  I  had  got  a 
cold,  and  nothing  could  prevail  upon  her  to  permit  me  from 
home.  "No,  my  dear,"  said  she,  "our  son  Moses  is  a  discreet 
boy,  and  can  buy  and  sell  to  a  very  good  advantage :  you  know 
all  our  great  bargains  are  of  his  purchasing.  He  always  stands 
out  and  higgles,  and  actually  tires  them  till  he  gets  a  bargain." 

As  I  had  some  opinion  of  my  son's  prudence,  I  was  willing 


FORTUNE    HUMBLES    THEM  51 

enough  to  entrust  him  with  this  commission  :  and  the  next 
morning  I  perceived  his  sisters  mighty  busy  in  fitting  out 
Moses0  for  the  fair;  trimming  his  hair,  brushing  his  buckles, 
and  cocking  his  hat  with  pins.  The  business  of  the  toilet  being 
over,  we  had  at  last  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  mounted 
upon  the  Colt,  with  a  deal  box  before  him  to  bring  home 
groceries  in.  He  had  on  a  coat  made  of  that  cloth  they  call 
thunder-and-lightning,0  which,  though  grown  too  short,  was 
much  too  good  to  be  thrown  away.  His  waistcoat  was  of  a 
gosling  green,0  and  his  sisters  had  tied  his  hair  with  a  broad  6- 
black  riband.  We  all  followed  him  several  paces  from  the 
door  bawling  after  him,  "  Good  luck !  good  luck  ! "  till  we 
could  see  him  no  longer. 

He  was  scarce  gone,  when  Mr.  Thornhill's  butler  came  to 
congratulate  us  upon  our  good  fortune,  saying  that  he  overheard 
his  young  master  mention  our  names  with  great  commendation. 

Good  fortune  seemed  resolved  not  to  come  alone.  Another 
footman  from  the  same  family  followed,  with  a  card  for  my 
daughters,  importing  that  the  two  ladies  had  received  such 
pleasing  accounts  from  Mr.  Thornhill  of  us  all,  that  after  a 
few  previous  inquiries  they  hoped  to  be  perfectly  satisfied. 
"Ay,"  cried  my  wife,  "I  now  see  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  get 
into  the  families  of  the  great ;  but  when  one  once  gets  in,  then, 
as  Moses  says,  one  may  go  to  sleep."  To  this  piece  of  humour, 
for  she  intended  it  for  wit,  my  daughters  assented  with  a  loud 
laugh  of  pleasure.  In  short,  such  was  her  satisfaction  at  this 
message,  that  she  actually  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and  gave 
the  messenger  sevenpence  halfpenny. 

This  was  to  be  our  visiting  day.  The  next  that  came  was 
Mr.  Burchell,  who  had  been  at  the  fair.  He  brought  my  little 
ones  a  pennyworth  of  gingerbread  each,  which  my  wife  under- 
took to  keep  for  them,  and  give  them  by  letters  at  a  time. 
He  brought  my  daughters  also  a  couple  of  boxes,  in  which  they 
might  keep  wafers,0  snuff,  patches,  or  even  money,  when  they 


52  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

got  it.  My  wife  was  usually  fond  of  a  weasel-skin  purse,  as 
being  the  most  lucky;  but  this  by  the  by.  We  had  still  a 
regard  for  Mr.  Burchell,  though  his  late  rude  behaviour  was 
in  some  measure  displeasing ;  nor  could  we  now  avoid  com- 
municating our  happiness  to  him,  and  asking  his  advice :  al- 
though we  seldom  followed  advice,  we  were  all  ready  enough 
to  ask  it.  When  he  read  the  note  from  the  two  ladies,  he 
shook  his  head,  and  observed,  that  an  affair  of  this  sort  de- 
manded the  utmost  circumspection.  This  air  of  diffidence 
highly  displeased  my  wife.  "  I  never  doubted,  sir,"  cried  she, 
"your  readiness  to  be  against  my  daughters  and  me.  You 
have  more  circumspection  than  is  wanted.  However,  I  fancy 
when  we  come  to  ask  advice,  we  will  apply  to  persons  who 
seem  to  have  made  use  of  it  themselves."  —  "Whatever  my 
own  conduct  may  have  been,  madam,"  replied  he,  "  is  not  the 
present  question :  though,  as  I  have  made  no  use  of  advice 
myself,  I  should  in  conscience  give  it  to  those  that  will."  As 
I  was  apprehensive  this  answer  might  draw  on  a  repartee,  mak- 
ing up  by  abuse  what  it  wanted  in  wit,  I  changed  the  subject, 
by  seeming  to  wonder  what  could  keep  our  son  so  long  at  the 
fair,  as  it  was  now  almost  nightfall.  "  Never  mind  our  son," 
cried  my  wife ;  "  depend  upon  it  he  knows  what  he  is  about. 
I'll  warrant  we'll  never  see  him  sell  his  hen  of  a  rainy  day.  I 
have  seen  him  buy  such  bargains  as  would  amaze  one.  I'll  tell 
you  a  good  story  about  that,  that  will  make  you  split  your  sides 
with  laughing. —  But,  as  I  live,  yonder  comes  Moses,  without  a 
horse,  and  the  box  at  his  back." 

As  she  spoke,  Moses  came  slowly  on  foot,  and  sweating  under 
the  deal  box,  which  he  had  strapt  round  his  shoulders  like  a 
pedlar.  "  Welcome,  welcome,  Moses  !  well,  my  boy,  what  have 
you  brought  us  from  the  fair  ?"•  —  "!  have  brought  you  my- 
self," cried  Moses,  with  a  sly  look,  and  resting  the  box  on  the 
dresser.  "Ay,  Moses,"  cried  my  wife,  "that  we  know;  but 
where  is  the  horse?"  —  "I  have  sold  him,"  cried  Moses,  "for 


FORTUNE    HUMBLES    THEM  53 

three  pounds  five  shillings  and  twopence." — "Well  done,  my 
good  boy,"  returned  she ;  "  I  knew  you  would  touch  them  off. 
Between  ourselves,  three  pounds  five  shillings  and  twopence  is 
no  bad  day's  work.  Come,  let  us  have  it  then."  —  "I  have 
brought  back  no  money,"  cried  Moses  again.  "  I  have  laid  it 
all  out  in  a  bargain,  and  here  it  is,"  pulling  out  a  bundle  from 
his  breast :  "  here  they  are ;  a  gross  of  green  spectacles,  with 
silver  rims  and  shagreen  cases."  —  "A  gross  of  green  spec- 
tacles ! "  repeated  my  wife,  in  a  faint  voice.  "  And  you  have 
parted  with  the  Colt,  and  brought  us  back  nothing  but 
a  gross  of  green  paltry  spectacles!"  —  "Dear  mother,"  cried 
the  boy,  "  why  won't  you  listen  to  reason  ?  I  had  them  a  dead 
bargain,  or  I  should  not  have  bought  them.  The  silver  rims 
alone  will  sell  for  double  the  money."  —  "A  fig  for  the  silver 
rims,"  cried  my  wife,  in  a  passion  :  "I  dare  swear  they  won't 
sell  for  above  half  the  money  at  the  rate  of  broken  silver,  five 
shillings  an  ounce."  —  "  You  need  be  under  no  uneasiness,"  cried 
I,  "  about  selling  the  rims,  for  they  are  not  worth  sixpence ;  for 
I  perceive  they  are  only  copper  varnished  over." — "What!" 
cried  my  wife,  "not  silver!  the  rims  not  silver?"  —  "No," 
cried  I,  "no  more  silver  than  your  sauce-pan." — "And  so," 
returned  she,  "  we  have  parted  with  the  Colt,  and  have  only 
got  a  gross  of  green  spectacles,  with  copper  rims  and  shagreen 
cases  1  A  murrain  take  such  trumpery !  The  blockhead  has 
been  imposed  upon,  and  should  have  known  his*  company  better." 
—  "There,  my  dear,"  cried  I,  "you  are  wrong;  he  should  not 
v  have  known  them  at  all."  —  "  Marry,  hang  the  idiot ! "  re- 
turned she,  "to  bring  me  such  stuff:  if  I  had  them  I  would 
throw  them  in  the  fire."  —  "  There  again  you  are  wrong,  my 
dear,"  cried  I,  "  for  though  they  be  copper,  we  will  keep  them 
by  us,  as  copper  spectacles,  you  know,  are  better  than  nothing." 
By  this  time  the  unfortunate  Moses  was  undeceived.  He 
now  saw  that  he  had  been  imposed  upon  by  a  prowling  sharper, 
who,  observing  his  figure,  had  marked  him  for  an  easy  prey.  I 


54  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

therefore  asked  the  circumstances  of  his  deception.  He  sold  the 
horse,  it  seems,  and  walked  the  fair  in  search  of  another.  A 
reverend-looking  man  brought  him  to  a  tent,  under  pretence  of 
having  one  to  sell.  "  Here,"  continued  Moses,  "  we  met  another 
man,  very  well  dressed,  who  desired  to  borrow  twenty  pounds 
upon  these,  saying  that  he  wanted  money,  and  would  dispose 
of  them  for  a  third  of  the  value.  The  first  gentleman,  who 
pretended  to  be  my  friend,  whispered  me  to  buy  them,  and  cau- 
tioned me  not  to  let  so  good  an  offer  pass.  I  sent  for  Mr. 
Flamborough,  and  they  talked  him  up  as  finely  as  they  did  me ; 
and  so  at  last  we  were  persuaded  to  buy  the  two  gross  between 
us." 

CHAPTER  XIII 

Mr.  Burchell  is  found  to  be  an  Enemy,  for  he  has  the  Con£deji£je 
to  give  disagreeable  A  dvice 

OUR  family  had  now  made  several  attempts  to  be  fine  ;  but 
some  unforeseen  disaster  demolished  each  as  soon  as  projected. 
I  endeavoured  to  take  the  advantage  of  every  disappointment  to 
improve  their  good  sense,  in  proportion  as  they  were  frustrated 
in  ambition.  "  You  see,  my  children/'  cried  I,  "  how  little  is 
to  be  got  by  attempts  to  impose  upon  the  world  in  coping  with 
our  betters.  Such  as  are  poor,  and  will  associate  with  none  but 
the  rich,  are  hated  by  those  they  avoid,  and  despised  by  those 
they  follow.  Unequal  combinations  are  always  disadvantageous 
to  the  weaker  side,  the  rich  having  the  pleasure,  and  the  poor 
the  inconveniences  that  result  from  them.  But  come,  Dick, 
my  boy,  and  repeat  the  fable  you  were  reading  to-day,  for  the 
good  of  the  company." 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  cried  the  child,  "a  Giant  and  a  Dwarf 
were  friends,  and  kept  together.  They  made  a  bargain  that 
they  would  never  forsake  each  other,  but  go  seek  adventures. 


MR.    BURCHELL    AN   ENEMY  55 

The  first  battle  they  fought  was  with  two  Saracens,  and  the 
Dwarf,  who  was  very  courageous,  dealt  one  of  the  champions  a 
most  angry  blow.  It  did  the  Saracen  but  very  little  injury, 
who,  lifting  up  his  sword,  fairly  struck  off  the  poor  Dwarfs 
arm.  He  was  now  in  a  woful  plight ;  but  the  Giant,  coming  to 
his  assistance,  in  a  short  time  left  the  two  Saracens  dead  on  the 
plain,  and  the  Dwarf  cut  off  the  dead  man's  head  out  of  spite. 
They  then  travelled  on  to  another  adventure.  This  was  against 
three  bloody-minded  Satyrs,  who  were  carrying  away  a  damsel 
in  distress.  The  Dwarf  was  not  quite  so  fierce  now  as  before, 
but  for  all  that  struck  the  first  blow,  which  was  returned  by 
another  that  knocked  out  his  eye ;  but  the  Giant  was  soon  up 
with  them,  and  had  they  not  fled,  would  certainly  have  killed 
them  every  one.  They  were  all  very  joyful  for  this  victory,  and 
the  damsel,  who  was  relieved,  fell  in  love  with  the  Giant,  and 
married  him.  They  now  travelled  far,  and  farther  than  I  can 
tell,  till  they  met  with  a  company  of  robbers.  The  Giant,  for 
the  first  time,  was  foremost  now ;  but  the  Dwarf  was  not  far 
behind.  The  battle  was  stout  and  long.  Wherever  the  Giant 
came,  all  fell  before  him ;  but  the  Dwarf  had  like  to  have  been 
killed  more  than  once.  At  last  the  victory  declared  for  the  two 
adventurers ;  but  the  Dwarf  lost  his  leg.  The  Dwarf  had  now 
lost  an  arm,  a  leg,  and  an  eye,  while  the  Giant  was  without  a 
single  wound ;  upon  which  he  cried  out  to  his  little  companion, 
1  My  little  hero,  this  is  glorious  sport !  let  us  get  one  victory 
more,  and  then  we  shall  have  honour  for  ever.'  —  'No,'  cries 
the  Dwarf,  who  was  by  this  time  grown  wiser,  f  no,  I  declare 
off :  I'll  fight  no  more  :  for  I  find  in  -every  battle  that  you  get 
all  the  honours  and  rewards,  but  all  the  blows  fall  upon  me.' " 

I  was  going  to  moralize  this  fable,  when  our  attention  was 
called  off  to  a  warm  dispute  between  my  wife  and  Mr.  Burchell 
upon  my  daughters'  intended  expedition  to  town.  My  wife 
very  strenuously  insisted  upon  the  advantages  that  would  re- 
sult from  it ;  Mr.  Burchell,  on  the  contrary,  dissuaded  her  with 


56  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

great  ardour;  and  I  stood  neuter.  His  present  dissuasions 
seemed  but  the  second  part  of  those  which  were  received  with 
so  ill  a  grace  in  the  morning.  The  dispute  grew  high;  while 
poor  Deborah,  instead  of  reasoning  stronger,  talked  louder,  and 
at  last  was  obliged  to  take  shelter  from  a  defeat  in  clamour. 
The  conclusion  of  her  harangue,  however,  was  highly  displeas- 
ing to  us  all :  she  knew,  she  said,  of  some  who  had  their  own 
secret  reasons  for  what  they  advised ;  but,  for  her  part,  she 
wished  such  to  stay  away  from  her  house  for  the  future. 
"Madam,"  cried  Burchell,  with  looks  of  great  composure,  which 
tended  to  inflame  her  the  more,  "  as  for  secret  reasons,  you  are 
right :  I  have  secret  reasons,  which  I  forbear  to  mention,  be- 
cause you  are  not  able  to  answer  those  of  which  I  make  no 
secret ;  but  I-  find  my  visits  here  are  become  troublesome ;  I'll 
take  my  leave,  therefore,  now,  and  perhaps  come  once  more  to 
take  a  final  farewell  when  I  am  quitting  the  country."  Thus 
saying,  he  took  up  his  hat ;  nor  could  the  attempts  of  Sophia,  • 
whose  looks  seemed  to  upbraid  his  precipitancy,  present  his 
going. 

When  gone,  we  all  regarded  each  other  for  some  minutes 
with  confusion.  My  wife,  who  knew  herself  to  be  the  cause, 
strove  to  hide  her  concern  with  a  forced  smile  and  an  air  of 
assurance,  which  I  was  willing  to  reprove.  "How,  woman," 
cried  I  to  her,  "is  it  thus  we  treat  strangers?  Is  it  thus  we 
return  their  kindness  ?  Be  assured,  my  dear,  that  these  were 
the  harshest  words,  and  to  me  the  most  unpleasing,  that  ever 
escaped  your  lips  !  "  —  "  Why  would  he  provoke  me,  then  ? " 
replied  she ;  "  but  I  know  the  motives  of  his  advice  perfectly 
well.  He  would  prevent  my  girls  from  going  to  town  that  he 
may  have  the  pleasure  of  my  youngest  daughter's  company  here 
at  home.  But,  whatever  happens,  she  shall  choose  better  com- 
pany than  such  low-lived  fellows  as  he."  —  "  Low-lived,  my 
dear,  do  you  call  him ? "  cried  I ;  "it  is  very  possible  we  may 
mistake  this  man's  character,  for  he  seems,  upon  some  occasions, 


FRESH   MORTIFICATIONS  57 

the  most  finished  gentleman  I  ever  knew.  Tell  me,  Sophia, 
my  girl,  has  he  ever  given  you  any  secret  instances  of  his 
attachment?" — "His  conversation  with  me,  sir,"  replied  my 
daughter,  "  has  ever  been  sensible,  modest,  and  pleasing.  As 
to  aught  else  —  no,  never.  Once,  indeed,  I  remember  to  have 
heard  him  say,  he  never  knew  a  woman  who  could  find  merit  in 
a  man  that  seemed  poor." —  "Such,  my  dear,"  cried  I,  "is  the 
common  cant  of  all  the  unfortunate  or  idle.  But  I  hope  you 
have  been  taught  to  judge  properly  of  such  men,  and  that  it 
would  be  even  madness  to  expect  happiness  from  one  who  has 
been  so  very  bad  an  economist  of  his  own.  Your  mother  and  I 
have  now  better  prospects  for  you.  The  next  winter,  which 
you  will  probably  spend  in  town,  will  give  you  opportunities  of 
making  a  more  prudent  choice." 

What  Sophia's  reflections  were  upon  this  occasion  I  cannot 
pretend  to  determine ;  but  I  was  not  displeased  at  the  bottom 
that  we  were  rid  of  a  guest  from  whom  I  had  much  to  fear. 
Our  breach  of  hospitality  went  to  my  conscience  a  little ;  but  I 
quickly  silenced  that  monitor  by  two  or  three  specipus  reasons, 
which  served  to  satisfy  and  reconcile  me  to  myseUT  The  pain 
which  conscience  gives  the  man  who  has  already  done  wrong  is 
soon  got  over.  Conscience  is  a  coward  ;  and  those  faults  it  has 
not  strength  enough  to  prevent,  it  seldom  has  justice  enough  to 
accuse. 

CHAPTER  XIV 

Fresh  Mortifications,  or  a  Demonstration  that  seeming  Calamities 
may  be  real  Blessings 

THE  journey  of  my  daughters  to  town  was  now  resolved  upon, 
Mr.  Thornhill  having  kindly  promised  to  inspect  their  conduct 
himself,  and  inform  us  by  letter  of  their  behaviour.  But  it  was 
thought  indispensably  necessary  that  their  appearance  should 
equal  the  greatness  of  their  expectations,  which  could  not  be 


58  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

done  without  expense.  We  debated  therefore  in  full  council 
what  were  the  easiest  methods  of  raising  money,  or,  more  prop- 
erly speaking,  what  we  could  most  conveniently  sell.  The  de- 
liberation was  soon  finished :  it  was  found  that  our  remaining 
horse  was  utterly  useless  for  the  plough  without  his  companion, 
and  equally  unfit  for  the  road,  as  wanting  an  eye :  it  was  there- 
fore determined  that  we  should  dispose  of  him,  for  the  purpose 
above  mentioned,  at  the  neighboring  fair ;  and,  to  prevent  im- 
position, that  I  should  go  with  him  myself.  Though  this  was 
one  of  the  first  mercantile  transactions  of  my  life,  yet  I  had  no 
doubt  about  acquitting  myself  with  reputation.  The  opinion  a 
man  forms  of  his  own  prudence  is  measured  by  that  of  the  com- 
pany he  keeps  ^and  as  mine  was  most  in  the  family  way,  I  had 
conceived  no  unfavourable  sentiments  of  my  worldly  wisdom. 
My  wife,  however,  next  morning  at  parting,  after  I  had  got  some 
paces  from  the  door,  called  me  back  to  advise  me  in  a  whisper 
to  have  all  my  eyes  about  me. 

I  had,  in  the  usual  forms,  when  I  came  to  the  fair,  put  my 
horse  through  all  his  paces,  but  for  some  time  had  no  bidders. 
At  last  a  chapman0  approached,  and  after  he  had  for  a  good 
while  examined  the  horse  round,  finding  him  blind  of  one  eye, 
he  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him ;  a  second  came  up,  but 
observing  he  had  a  spavin,  declared  he  would  not  take  him  for 
the  driving  home;  a  third  perceived  he  had  a  windgall,  and 
would  bid  no  money ;  a  fourth  knew  by  his  eye  tliatThe  had 
the  botts ;  a  fifth  wondered  what  a  plague  I  could  do  at  the 
fair  with  a  blind,  spavined,  galled  hack,  that  was  only  fit  to 
be  cut  up  for  a  dog  kennel.  By  this  time,  I  began  to  have  a 
most  hearty  contempt  for  the  poor  animal  myself,  and  was 
almost  ashamed  at  the  approach  of  every  customer :  for  though 
I  did  not  entirely  believe  all  the  fellows  told  me,  yet  I  reflected 
that  the  number  of  witnesses  was  a  strong  presumption  they 
were  right ;  and  St.  Gregory0  upon  Good  Works  professes  him- 
self to  be  of  the  same  opinion. 


•      FRESH   MORTIFICATIONS  59 

I  was  in  this  mortifying  situation,  when  a  brother  clergyman, 
an  old  acquaintance,  who  had  also  business  at  the  fair,  came 
up,  and,  shaking  me  by  the  hand,  proposed  adjourning  to  a 
public-house,  and  taking  a  glass  of  whatever  we  could  get.  I 
readily  closed  with  the  offer,  and  entering  an  alehouse,  we 
were  shown  into  a  little  back  room,  where  there  was  only  a 
venerable  old  man,  who  sat  wholly  intent  over  a  large  book, 
which  he  was  reading.  I  never  in  my  life  saw  a  figure  that 
prepossessed  me  more  favourably.  His  locks  of  silver  grey  vener- 
ably shaded  his  temples,  and  hisj^reen  old  age  seemed  to  be  the 
result  of  health  and  benevolence.  However,  his  presence  did 
not  interrupt  our  conversation :  my  friend  and  I  discoursed  on 
the  various  turns  of  fortune  we  had  met ;  the  Whistonian  con- 
troversy, my  last  pamphlet,  the  archdeacon's  reply,  and  the 
hard  measure  that  was  dealt  me.  But  our  attention  was  in 
a  short  time  taken  off,  by  the  appearance  of  a  youth,  who, 
entering  the  room,  respectfully  said  something  softly  to  the  old 
stranger.  "Make  no  apologies,  my  child,"  said  the  old  man; 
"  to  do  good  is  a  duty  we  owe  to  all  our  fellow- creatures :  take 
this,  I  wish  it  were  more;  but  five  pounds  will  relieve  your 
distress,  and  you  are  welcome."  The  modest  youth  shed  tears 
of  gratitude,  and  yet  his  gratitude  was  scarce  equal  to  mine. 
I  could  have  hugged  the  old  man  in  my  arms,  his  benevolence 
pleased  me  so.  He  continued  to  read,  and  we  resumed  our  con- 
versation, until  my  companion,  after  some  time,  recollecting 
that  he  had  business  to  transact  in  the  fair,  promised  to  be 
soon  back ;  adding,  that  he  always  desired  to  have  as  much  of 
Dr.  Primrose's  company  as  possible.  The  old  gentleman,  hear- 
ing my  name  mentioned,  seemed  to  look  at  me  with  attention 
for  some  time  ;  and  when  my  friend  was  gone,  most  respectfully 
demanded  if  I  was  in  any  way  related  to  the  great  Primrose, 
that  courageous  monogamist,  who  had  been  the  bulwark  of  the 
Church.  Never  did  my  heart  feel  sincerer  rapture  than  at  that 
moment.  "  Sir,"  cried  I,  "  the  applause  of  so  good  a  man  as 


60  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

I  am  sure  you  are,  adds  to  that  happiness  in  my  breast  which 
your  benevolence  has  already  excited.  You  behold  before  you, 
sir,  that  Dr.  Primrose,  the  monogamist,  whom  you  have  been 
pleased  to  call  great.  You  here  see  that  unfortunate  divine, 
who  has  so  long,  and  it  would  ill  become  me  to  say,  success- 
fully, fought  against  the  deuterogamy  of  the  age."  —  "  Sir," 
cried  the  stranger,  struck  with  awe,  "I  fear  I  have  been  too 
familiar,  but  you'll  forgive  my  curiosity,  sir  :  I' beg  pardon."  — 
"Sir,"  cried  I,  grasping  his  hand,  "you  are  so  far  from  dis- 
pleasing me  by  your  familiarity,  that  I  must  beg  you'll  accept 
my  friendship,  as  you  already  have  my  esteem."  —  "  Then  with 
gratitude  I  accept  the  offer,"  cried  he,  squeezing  me  by  the 
hand,  "thou  glorious  pillar  of  unshaken  orthodoxy!  and  do  I 
behold  —  "I  here  interrupted  what  he  was  going  to  say ;  for 
though,  as  an  author,  I  could  digest  no  small  share  of  flattery, 
yet  now  my  modesty  would  permit  no  more.  However,  no  lovers 
in  romance  ever  cemented  a  more  instantaneous  friendship.  We , 
talked  upon  several  subjects  :  at  first  I  thought  he  seemed 
rather  devout  than  learned,  and  began  to  think  he  despised  all 
human  doctrines  as  dross.  Yet  this  no  way  lessened  him  in 
my  esteem,  for  I  had  for  some  time  begun  privately  to  harbour 
such  an  opinion  myself.  I  therefore  took  occasion  to  observe, 
that  the  world  in  general  began  to  be  blameably  indifferent 
as  to  doctrinal  matters,  and  followed  human  speculations  too 
much.  "Ay,  sir,"  replied  he,  as  if  he  had  reserved  all  his 
learning  to  that  moment,  "  ay,  sir,  the  world  is  in  its  dotage ; 
and  yet  the  cosmogony,  or  creation  of  the  world,  has  puzzled 
philosophers  of  all  ages.  What  a  medley  of  opinions  have  they 
not  broached  upon  the  creation  of  the  world !  Sanchoniathon, 
Manetho,  Berosus,  and  Ocellus  Lucanus0  have  all  attempted  it 
in  vain.  The  latter  has  these  words,  Anarchon  ara  kai  atelu- 
taion  to  pan,  which  imply  that  all  things  have  neither  begin- 
ning nor  end.  Manetho  also,  who  lived  about  the  time  of 
Nebuchadon-Asser  —  Asser  being  a  Syriac  word,  usually  ap- 


FRESH   MORTIFICATIONS  61 

plied  as  a  surname  to  the  kings  of  that  country,  as  Teglat 
Phael-Asser,  Nabon-Asser —  he,  I  say,  formed  a  conjecture 
equally  absurd ;  for  as  we  usually  say,  ek  to  biblion  kubernetes, 
which  implies  that  books  will  never  teach  the  world;  so  he 

attempted   to   investigate But,  sir,  I  ask   pardon,  I  arn 

straying  from  the  question."  —  That  he  actually  was ;  nor 
could  I,  for  my  life,  see  how  the  creation  of  the  world  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  business  I  was  talking  of;  but  it  was 
sufficient  to  show  me  that  he  was  a  man  of  letters,  and  I  now 
reverenced  him  the  more.  I  was  resolved,  therefore,  to  bring 
him  to  the  touchstone :  but  he  was  too  mild  and  too  gentle  to 
contend  for  victory.  Whenever  I  made  an  observation  that 
looked  like  a  challenge  to  controversy,  he  would  smile,  shake 
his  head,  and  say  nothing ;  by  which  I  understood  he  could  say 
much,  if  he  thought  proper.  The  subject,  therefore,  insensibly 
changed  from  the  business  of  antiquity,  to  that  which  brought 
us  both  to  the  fair :  mine,  I  told  him,  was  to  sell  a  horse,  and 
very  luckily,  indeed,  his  was  to  buy  one  for  one  of  his  tenants. 
My  horse  was  soon  produced ;  and,  in  fine,  we  struck  a  bargain. 
Nothing  now  remained  but  to  pay  me,  and  he  accordingly 
pulled  out  a  thirty  pound  note,  and  bid  me  change  it.  Not 
being  in  a  capacity  of  complying  with  this  demand,  he  ordered 
his  footman  to  be  called  up,  who  made  his  appearance  in  a  very 
genteel  livery.  "Here,  Abraham,"  cried  he,  "go  and  get  gold 
for  this;  you'll  do  it  at  neighbour  Jackson's,  or  anywhere." 
While  the  fellow  was  gone,  he  entertained  me  with  a  pathetic 
harangue  on  the  great  scarcity  of  silver,  which  I  undertook  to 
improve,  by  deploring  also  the  great  scarcity  of  gold ;  so  that, 
by  the  time  Abraham  returned,  we  had  both  agreed  that  money 
was  never  so  hard  to  be  come  at  as  now.  Abraham  returned 
to  inform  us,  that  he  had  been  over  the  whole  fair,  and  could 
not  get  change,  though  he  had  offered  half-a-crown  for  doing  it. 
This  was  a  very  great  disappointment  to  us  all ;  but  the  old 
gentleman,  having  paused  a  little,  asked  me  if  I  knew  one  Solo- 


62  THE    VIGAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

mon  Flamborough  in  my  part  of  the  country.  Upon  replying 
that  was  my  next-door  neighbour :  "If  that  be  the  case,  then," 
returned  he,  "I  believe  we  shall  deal.  You  shall  have  a  draft 
upon  him,  payable  at  sight ;  and,  let  me  tell  you,  he  is  as  warm 
a  man  as  any  within  five  miles  round  him.  Honest  Solomon 
and  I  have  been  acquainted  for  many  years  together.  I  remem- 
ber I  always  beat  him  at  three  jumps ;  but  he  could  hop  on 
one  leg  farther  than  I."  A  draft  upon  my  neighbour  was  to 
me  the  same  as  money ;  for  I  was  sufficiently  convinced  of  his 
ability.  The  draft  was  signed,  and  put  into  my  hands,  and 
Mr.  Jenkinson,  the  old  gentleman,  his  man  Abraham,  and  my 
horse,  old  Blackberry,  trotted  off  very  well  pleased  with  each, 
other. 

After  a  short  interval,  being  left  to  reflection,  I  began  to 
recollect  that  I  had  done  wrong  in  taking  a  draft  from  a 
stranger,  and  so  prudently  resolved  upon  following  the  pur- 
chaser, and  having  back  my  horse.  But  this  was  now  too  late  ; 
I  therefore  made  directly  homewards,  resolving  to  get  the  draft 
changed  into  money  at  my  friend's  as  fast  as  possible.  I  found 
my  honest  neighbour  smoking  his  pipe  at  his  own  door,  and 
informing  him  that  I  had  a  small  bill  upon  him,  he  read  it 
twice  over.  "You  can  read  the  name,  I  suppose,"  cried  I, — 
"Ephraim  Jenkinson."  —  "Yes,"  returned  he,  "the  name  is 
written  plain  enough,  and  I  know  the  gentleman  too,  —  the 
greatest  rascal  under  the  canopy  of  heaven.  This  is  the  very 
same  rogue  who  sold  us  the  spectacles.  Was  he  not  a  vener- 
able-looking man,  with  grey  hair,  and  no  flaps  to  his  pocket- 
holes  ?  And  did  he  not  talk  a  long  string  of  learning  about 
Greek,  and  cosmogony,  and  the  world ! "  To  this  I  replied 
with  a  groan.  "Ay,"  continued  he,  "he  has  but  that  one 
piece  of  learning  in  the  world,  and  he  always  talks  it  away 
whenever  he  finds  a  scholar  in  company;  but  I  know  the 
rogue,  and  will  catch  him  yet." 

Though   I   was  already  sufficiently  mortified,    my  greatest 


VILLANY   DETECTED  63 

struggle  was  to  come,  in  facing  my  wife  and  daughters.  No 
truant  was  ever  more  afraid  of  returning  to  school,  there  to 
behold  the  master's  visage,  than  I  was  of  going  home.  I  was 
determined,  however,  to  anticipate  their  fury,  by  first  falling 
into  a  passion  myself. 

But,  alas  !  upon  entering,  I  found  the  family  no  way  disposed 
for  battle.  My  wife  and  girls  were  all  in  tears,  Mr.  Thornhill 
having  been  there  that  day  to  inform  them  that  their  journey 
to  town  was  entirely  over.  The  two  ladies,  having  heard 
reports  of  us  from  some  malicious  person  about  us,  were  that 
day  set  out  for  London.  He  could  neither  discover  the  ten- 
dency nor  the  author  of  these ;  but  whatever  they  might  be,  or 
whoever  might  have  broached  them,  he  continued  to  assure  our 
family  of  his  friendship  and  protection.  I  found,  therefore,  that 
they  bore  my  disappointment  with  great  resignation,  as  it  was 
eclipsed  in  the  greatness  of  their  own.  But  what  perplexed  us 
most,  was  to  think  who  could  be  so  base  as  to  asperse  the  char- 
acter of  a  family  so  harmless  as  ours ;  too  humble  to  excite 
envy,  and  too  inoffensive  to  create  disgust. 


CHAPTER  XV 

All  Mr.  BurchelVs  Villany  at  once  detected.     The  Folly  of  being 
overwise 

THAT  evening,  and  a  part  of  the  following  day,  was  employed 
in  fruitless  attempts  to  discover  our  enemies :  scarcely  a  family 
in  the  neighbourhood  but  incurred  our  suspicions,  and  each  of  us 
had  reasons  for  our  opinions  best  known  to  ourselves.  As  we 
were  in  this  perplexity,  one  of  our  little  boys,  who  had  been 
playing  abroad,  brought  in  a  letter-case,  which  he  found  on  the 
green.  It  was  quickly  known  to  belong  to  Mr.  Burchell,  with 
whom  it  had  been  seen,  and,  upon  examination,  contained  some 


64  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

hints  upon  different  subjects ;  but  what  particularly  engaged  our 
attention  was  a  sealed  note,  superscribed,  The  copy  of  a  letter 
to  be  sent  to  the  ladies  at  Thornhill  Castle.  It  instantly  oc- 
curred that  he  was  the  base  informer,  and  we  deliberated 
whether  the  note  should  not  be  broken  open.  I  was  against  it ; 
but  Sophia,  who  said  she  was  sure  that  of  all  men  he  would  be 
the  last  to  be  guilty  of  so  much  baseness,  insisted  upon  its  being 
read.  In  this  she  was  seconded  by  the  rest  of  the  family,  and 
at  their  joint  solicitation  I  read  as  follows  :  — 

"  Ladies,  —  The  bearer  will  sufficiently  satisfy  you  as  to  the 
person  from  whom  this  comes :  one  at  least  the  friend  of  inno- 
cence, and  ready  to  prevent  its  being  seduced.  I  am  informed 
for  a  truth,  that  you  have  some  intention  of  bringing  two  young 
ladies  to  town,  whom  I  have  some  knowledge  of,  under  the 
character  of  companions.  As  I  would  neither  have  simplicity 
imposed  upon,  nor  virtue  contaminated,  I  must  offer  it  as  my 
opinion,  that  the  impropriety  of  such  a  step  will  be  attended 
with  dangerous  consequences.  It  has  never  been  my  way  to 
treat  the  infamous  or  the  lewd  with  severity ;  nor  should  I  now 
have  taken  this  method  of  explaining  myself,  or  reproving  folly, 
did  it  not  aim  at  guilt.  Take,  therefore,  the  admonition  of  a 
friend,  and  seriously  reflect  on  the  consequences  of  introducing 
infamy  and  vice  into  retreats  where  peace  and  innocence  have 
hitherto  resided." 

Our  doubts  were  now  at  an  end.  There  seemed,  indeed, 
something  applicable  to  both  sides  in  this  letter,  and  its  cen- 
sures might  as  well  be  referred  to  those  to  whom  it  was  written, 
as  to  us  ;  but  the  malicious  meaning  was  obvious,  and  we  went 
no  farther.  My  wife  had  scarcely  patience  to  hear  me  to  the 
end,  but  railed  at  the  writer  with  unrestrained  resentment. 
Olivia  was  equally  severe,  and  Sophia  seemed  perfectly  amazed 
at  his  baseness.  As  for  my  part,  it  appeared  to  me  one  of  the 
vilest  instances  of  unprovoked  ingratitude  I  had  ever  met  with ; 
nor  could  I  account  for  it  in  any  other  manner  than  by  imputing 


VILLANY    DETECTED  65 

it  to  his  desire  of  detaining  my  youngest  daughter  in  the  coun- 
try, to  have  the  more  frequent  opportunities  of  an  interview. 
In  this  manner  we  all  sat  ruminating  upon  schemes  of  vengeance, 
when  our  other  little  boy  came  running  in  to  tell  us  that  Mr. 
Burchell  was  approaching  at  the  other  end  of  the  field.  It  is 
easier  to  conceive  than  describe  the  complicated  sensations  which 
are  felt  from  the  pain  of  a  recent  injury,  and  the  pleasure  of 
approaching  vengeance.  Though  our  intentions  were  only  to 
upbraid  him  with  his  ingratitude,  yet  it  was  resolved  to  do  it  in 
a  manner  that  would  be  perfectly  cutting.  For  this  purpose  we 
agreed  to  meet  him  with  our  usual  smiles ;  to  chat  in  the  begin- 
ning with  more  than  ordinary  kindness,  to  amuse  him  a  little  ; 
and  then,  in  the  midst  of  a  flattering  calm,  to  burst  upon  him 
like  an  earthquake,  and  overwhelm  him  with  a  sense  of  his  own 
baseness.  This  being  resolved  upon,  my  wife  undertook  to 
manage  the  business  herself,  as  she  really  had  some  talents  for 
such  an  undertaking.  We  saw  him  approach  :  he  entered,  drew 
a  chair,  and  sat  down.  "A  fine  day,  Mr.  Burchell."  —  UA 
very  fine  day,  Doctor ;  though  I  fancy  we  shall  have  some  rain 
by  the  shooting  of  my  corns."  —  "  The  shooting  of  your  horns  !  " 
cried  my  wife,  in  a  loud  fit  of  laughter,  and  then  asked  pardon 
for  being  fond  of  a  joke.  " Dear  madam,"  replied  he,  "I  par- 
don you  with  all  my  heart,  for  I  protest  I  should  not  have  thought 
it  a  joke  had  you  not  told  me."  —  "  Perhaps  not,  sir,"  cried  my 
wife,  winking  at  us ;  "  and  yet  I  dare  say  you  can  tell  us  how 
many  jokes  go  to  an  ounce."-— "I  fancy,  madam,"  returned 
Burchell,  "you  have  been  reading  a  jest  book0  this  morning, 
that  ounce  of  jokes  is  so  very  good  a  conceit;  and  yet,  madam, 
I  had  rather  see  half  an  ounce  of  understanding."  —  "I  believe 
you  might,"  cried  my  wife,  still  smiling  at  us,  though  the  laugh 
was  against  her;  "and  yet  I  have  seen  some  men  pretend  to 
understanding  that  have  very  little."-—  "  And  no  doubt,"  re- 
turned her  antagonist,  "  you  have  known  ladies  set  up  for  wit 
tiiat  had  none."  I  quickly  began  to  find  that  my  wife  was 

p 

^Yj-v 


66  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

likely  to  gain  but  little  at  this  business ;  so  I  resolved  to  treat 
him  in  a  style  of  more  severity  myself.  "  Both  wit  and  under- 
standing," cried  I,  "are  trifles,  without  integrity;  it  is  that 
which  gives  value  to  every  character.  The  ignorant  peasant  with- 
out fault,  is  greater  than  the  philosopher  with  many ;  for  what 
is  genius  or  courage  without  an  heart  ? 

"  '  An  honest  man 's  the  noblest  work  of  God.'  " 

"I  always  held  that  hackneyed  maxim  of  Pope,"  returned 
Mr.  Burchell,  "as  very  unworthy  a  man  of  genius,  and  a  base 
desertion  of  his  own  superiority.  As  the  reputation  of  books  is 
raised,  not  by  their  freedom  from  defect,  but  the  greatness  of 
their  beauties  ;  so  should  that  of  men  be  prized,  not  for  their 
exemption  from  fault  but  the  size  of  those  virtues  they  are  pos- 
sessed of.  The  scholar  may  want  prudence,  the  statesman  may 
have  pride,  and  the  champion0  ferocity ;  but  shall  we  prefer  to 
these  the  low  mechanic,  who  laboriously  plods  on  through  life 
without  censure  or  applause?  We  might  as  well  prefer  the 
tame  correct  paintings  of  the  Flemish  school  to  the  erroneous 
but  sublime  animations  of  the  Roman  pencil." 

"Sir,"  replied  I,  "your  present  observation  is  just,  when 
there  are  shining  virtues  and  minute  defects ;  '  but  when  it 
appears  that  great  vices  are  opposed  in  the  same  mind  to  as 
extraordinary  virtues,  such  a  character  deserves  contempt." 

"  Perhaps, "cried  he,  "  there  maybe  some  such  monsters  as  you 
describe,  of  great  vices  joined  to  great  virtues ;  yet  in  my  prog- 
ress through  life,  I  never  yet  found  one  instance  of  their  exist- 
ence :  on  the  contrary,  I  have  ever  perceived,  that  where  the 
mind  was  capacious,  the  affections  were  good.  And  indeed 
Providence  seems  kindly  our  friend  in  this  particular,  thus  to 
debilitate  the  understanding  where  the  heart  is  corrupt,  and 
diminish  the  power  where  there  is  the  will  to  do  mischief.  This 
rule  seems  to  extend  even  to  other  animals ;  the  little  vermin 


VILLANY   DETECTED  67 

race  are  ever  treacherous,  cruel,  and  cowardly,  whilst  those  en- 
dowed with  strength  and  power  are  generous,  brave,  and 
gentle." 

"  These  observations  sound  well,"  returned  I,  "  and  yet  it 
would  be  easy  this  moment  to  point  out  a  man,"  and  I  fixed  my 
eye  steadfastly  upon  him,  "  whose  head  and  heart  form  a  most 
detestable  contrast.  Ay,  sir,"  continued  I,  raising  my  voice, 
"  and  I  am  glad  to  have  this  opportunity  of  detecting  him  in 
the  midst  of  his  fancied  security.  Do  you  know  this,  sir,  this 
pocket-book  1 "  —  "  Yes,  sir,"  returned  he,  with  a  face  of  impene- 
trable assurance,  "that  pocket-book  is  mine,  and  I  am  glad  you 
have  found  it."  —  "And  do  you  know,"  cried  I,  "this  letter? 
Nay,  never  falter,  man ;  but  look  me  full  in  the  face  :  I  say,  do 
you  know  this  letter  ? "  —  "  That  letter,"  returned  he  ;  "  yes,  it 
was  I  that  wrote  that  letter."  —  "And  how  could  you,"  said  I, 
"so  basely,  so  ungratefully  presume  to  write  this  letter?" 
"  And  how  came  you,"  replied  he,  with  looks  of  unparalleled 
effrontery,  "  so  basely  presume  to  break  open  this  letter  ?  Don't 
you  know,  now,  I  could  hang  you  all  for  this  ?  °  All  that  I  have 
to  do  is  to  swear  at  the  next  justice's  that  you  have  been  guilty 
of  breaking  open  the  lock  of  my  pocket-book,  and  so  hang  you 
all  up  at  his  door."  This  piece  of  unexpected  insolence  raised 
me  to  such  a  pitch,  that  I  could  scarce  govern  my  passion. 
"  Ungrateful  wretch  !  begone,  and  no  longer  pollute  my  dwell- 
ing with  thy  baseness  !  begone,  and  never  let  me  see  thee  again  ! 
Go  from  my  door,  and  the  only  punishment  I  wish  thee  is  an 
alarmed  conscience,  which  will  be  a  sufficient  tormentor  !  "  So 
saying,  I  threw  him  his  pocket-book,  which  he  took  up  with  a 
smile,  and  shutting  the  clasps  with  the  utmost  composure,  left 
•  us,  quite  asvtonished  at  the  serenity  of  his  assurance.  My  wife 
was  particularly  enraged  that  nothing  could  make  him  angry, 
or  make  him  seem  ashamed  of  his  villanies.  "My  dear,"  cried 
I,  willing  to  calm  those  passions  that  had  been  raised  too  high 
among  us,  "we  are  not  to  be  surprised  that  bad  men  want 


68  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

shame :  they  only  blush  at  being  detected  in  doing  good,  but 
glory  in  their  vices. 

"Guilt  and  Shame,  says  the  allegory,  were  at  first  compan- 
ions, and,  in  the  beginning  of  their  journey,  inseparably  kept 
together.  But  their  union  was  soon  found  to  be  disagreeable 
and  inconvenient  to  both.  Guilt  gave  Shame  frequent  uneasi- 
ness, and  Shame  often  betrayed  the  secret  conspiracies  of  Guilt. 
After  long  disagreement,  therefore,  they  at  length  consented  to 
part  for  ever.  Guilt  boldly  walked  forward  alone,  to  overtake 
Fate,  that  went  before  in  the  shape  of  an  executioner ;  but 
Shame,  being  naturally  timorous,  returned  back  to  keep  com- 
pany with  Virtue,  which  in  the  beginning  of  their  journey  they 
had  left  behind.  Thus,  my  children,  after  men  have  travelled 
through  a  few  stages  in  vice,  shame  forsakes  them,  and  returns 
back  to  wait  upon  the  few  virtues  they  have  still  remaining." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

The  Family  use  Art,  which  is  opposed  with  still  greater 

WHATEVER  might  have  been  Sophia's  sensations,  the  rest  of 
the  family  was  easily  consoled  for  Mr.  Burchell's  absence  by 
the  company  of  our  landlord,  whose  visits  now  became  more 
frequent,  and  longer.  Though  he  had  been  disappointed  in 
procuring  my  daughters  the  amusements  of  the  town,  as  he 
designed,  he  took  every  opportunity  of  supplying  them  with 
those  little  recreations  which  our  retirement  would  admit  of. 
He  usually  came  in  the  morning;  and,  while  my  son  and  I  fol- 
lowed our  occupations  abroad,  he  sat  with  the  family  at  home, 
and  amused  them  by  describing  the  town,  with  every  part  of 
which  he  was  particularly  acquainted.  He  could  repeat  all  the 
observations  that  were  retailed  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  play- 
houses, and  had  all  the  good  things  of  the  high  wits  by  rote, 


THE    FAMILY    USE    ART  69 

long  before  they  made  their  way  into  the  jest  books.  The 
intervals  between  conversation  were  employed  in  teaching  my 
daughters  piquet,  or  sometimes  in  setting  my  'two  little 
ones  to  box,  to  make  them  sharp,  as  he  called  it :  but  the 
hopes  of  having  him  for  a  son-in-law  in  some  measure  blinded 
us  to  all  his  imperfections.  It  must  be  owned,  that  my  wife 
laid  a  thousand  schemes  to  entrap  him ;  or,  to  speak  more  ten- 
derly, used  every  art  to  magnify  the  merit  of  her  daughter.  If 
the  cakes  at  tea  ate  short  and  crisp,  they  were  made  by  Olivia ; 
if  the  gooseberry  wine  was  well  knit,  the  gooseberries  were  of 
her  gathering ;  it  was  her  fingers  which  gave  the  pickles  their 
peculiar  green ;  and,  in  the  composition  of  a  pudding,  it  was 
her  judgment  that  mixed  the  ingredients.  Then  the  poor  woman 
would  sometimes  tell  the  Squire  that  she  thought  him  and 
Olivia  extremely  of  a  size,  and  would  bid  both  stand  up  to  see 
which  was  tallest.  These  instances  of  cunning,  which  she 
thought  impenetrable,  yet  which  everybody  saw  through,  were 
very  pleasing  to  our  benefactor,  who  gave  every  day  some  new 
proofs  of  his  passion,  which,  though  they  had  not  arisen  to 
proposals  of  marriage,  yet  we  thought  fell  but  little  short  of  it ; 
and  his  slowness  was  attributed  sometimes  to  native  bashful- 
ness,  and  sometimes  to  his  fear  of  offending  his  uncle.  An 
occurrence,  however,  which  happened  soon  after,  put  it  beyond 
a  doubt  that  he  designed  to  become  one  of  our  family;  my  wife 
even  regarded  it  as  an  absolute  promise. 

My  wife  and  daughters  happening  to  return  a  visit  to  neigh- 
bour Flamborough's,  found  that  family  had  lately  got  their  pic- 
tures drawn  by  a  limner,  who  travelled  the  country,  and  took 
likenesses  for  fifteen  shillings  a  head.  As  this  family  and  ours 
had  long  a  sort  of  rivalry  in  point  of  taste,  our  spirit  took  the 
alarm  at  this  stolen  march  upon  us ;  and,  notwithstanding  all  I  \ " 
could  say,  and  I  said  much,  it  was  resolved  that  we  should  have 
our  pictures  done  too. 

Having,  therefore,  engaged  the  limner  —  for  what  could  I  do  1 


70  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

—  our  next  deliberation  was  to  show  the  superiority  of  our  taste 
in  the  attitudes.  As  for  our  neighbour's  family,  there  were 
seven  of  them,  and  they  were  drawn  with  seven  oranges,  —  a 
thing  quite  out  of  taste,  no  variety  in  life,  no  composition  in  the 
world.  We  desired  to  have  something  in  a  brighter  style  ;  and, 
after  many  debates,  at  length  came  to  a  unanimous  resolution 
of  being  drawn  together,  in  one  large  historical  family  piece.0 
This  would  be  cheaper,  since  one  frame  would  serve  for  all,  and 
it  would  be  infinitely  more  genteel ;  for  all  families  of  any  taste 
were  now  drawn  in  the  same  manner.  As  we  did  not  immedi- 
ately recollect  an  historical  subject  to  hit  us,  we  were  contented 
each  with  being  drawn  as  independent  historical  figures.  My 
wife  desired  to  be  represented  as  Venus,  and  the  painter  was 
desired  not  to  be  too  frugal  of  his  diamonds  in  her  stomacher0 
and  hair.  Her  two  little  ones  were  to  be  as  Cupids  by  her  side ; 
while  I,  in  my  gown  and  band,  was  to  present  her  with  my 
books  on  the  Whistonian  controversy.  Olivia  would  be  drawn 
as  an  Amazon,  sitting  upon  a  bank  of  flowers,  dressed  in  a  green 
Joseph,0  richly  laced  with  gold,  and  a  whip  in  her  hand.  Sophia 
was  to  be  a  shepherdess,  with  as  many  sheep  as  the  painter  could 
put  in  for  nothing ;  and  Moses  was  to  be  dressed  out  with  a  hat 
and  white  feather.  Our  taste  so  much  pleased  the  Squire,  that 
he  insisted  on  being  put  in  as  one  of  the  family,  in  the  character 
of  Alexander  the  Great,  at  Olivia's  feet.  This  was  considered 
by  us  all  as  an  indication  of  his  desire  to  be  introduced  into  the 
family,  nor  could  we  refuse  his  request.  The  painter  was  there- 
fore set  to  work,  and,  as  he  wrought  with  assiduity  and  expedi- 
tion, in  less  than  four  days  the  whole  was  completed.  The 
piece  was  large,  and,  it  must  be  owned,  he  did  not  spare  his 
colours ;  for  which  -my  wife  gave  him  great  encomiums.  We 
were  all  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  performance ;  but  an  unfor- 
tunate circumstance  had  not  occurred  till  the  picture  was  fin- 
ished, which  now  struck  us  with  dismay.  It  was  so  very  large, 
that  we  had  no  place  in  the  house  to  fix  it.  How  we  all  came 


THE    FAMILY    USE    ART  71 

to  disregard  so  material  a  point  is  inconceivable ;  but  certain  it 
is,  we  had  been  all  greatly  remiss.  The  picture,  therefore,  in- 
stead of  gratifying  our  vanity,  as  we  hoped,  leaned,  in  a  most 
mortifying  manner,  against  the  kitchen  wall,  where  the  canvas 
was  stretched  and  painted,  much  too  large  to  be  got  through  any 
of  the  doors,  and  the  jest  of  all  our  neighbours.  One  compared  it 
to  Robinson  Crusoe's  long-boat,  too  large  to  be  removed ;  another 
thought  it  more  resembled  a  reel0  in  a  bottle :  some  wondered 
how  it  could  be  got  out,  but  still  more  were  amazed  how  it  ever 
got  in. 

But  though  it  excited  the  ridicule  of  some,  it  effectually  raised 
more  malicious  suggestions  in  many.  The  Squire's  portrait  being 
found  united  with  ours  was  an  honour  too  great  to  escape  envy. 
Scandalous  whispers  began  to  circulate  at  our  expense,  and  our 
tranquillity  was  continually  disturbed  by  persons,  who  came  as 
friends  to  tell  us  what  was  said  of  us  by  enemies,  These  re- 
ports we  always  resented  with  becoming  spirit ;  /  but  scandal  j 
ever  improves  by  opposition^ 

We  once  again,  therefore,  entered  into  a  consultation  upon 
obviating  the  malice  of  our  enemies,  and  at  last  came  to  a  reso- 
lution which  had  too  much  cunning  to  give  me  entire  satisfac- 
tion. It  was  this  :  as  our  principal  object  was  to  discover  the 
honour  of  Mr.  Thornhill's  addresses,  my  wife  undertook  to  sound 
him,  by  pretending  to  ask  his  advice  in  the  choice  of  a  husband 
for  her  eldest  daughter.  If  this  was  not  found  sufficient  to  in- 
duce him  to  a  declaration,  it  was  then  resolved  to  terrify  him 
with  a  rival.  To  this  last  step,  however,  I  would  by  no  means 
give  my  consent,  till  Olivia  gave  rne  the  most  solemn  assurances 
that  she  would  marry  the  person  provided  to  rival  him  upon 
this  occasion,  if  he  did  not  prevent  it  by  taking  her  himself.  , 
Such  was  the  scheme  laid,  which,  though  I  did  not  strenuously 
oppose,  I  did  not  entirely  approve. 

The  next  time,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Thornhill  came  to  see  us, 
my  girls  took  care  to  be  out  of  the  way,  in  order  to  give  their 


72  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

mamma  an  opportunity  of  putting  her  scheme  in  execution ; 
but  they  only  retired  to  the  next  room,  from  whence  they  could 
overhear  the  whole  conversation.  My  wife  artfully  introduced 
it,  by  observing,  that  one  of  the  Miss  Flamboroughs  was  like  to 
have  a  very  good  match  of  it  in  Mr.  Spanker.  To  this  the 
Squire  assenting,  she  proceeded  to  remark,  that  they  who  had 
warm  fortunes  were  always  sure  of  getting  good  husbands  : 
"But  Heaven  help,"  continued  she,  "the  girls  that  have  none  ! 
What  signifies  beauty,  Mr.  Thornhill  1  or  what  signifies  all  the 
virtue,  and  all  the  qualifications  in  the  world,  in  this  age  of  self- 
interest  *?  It  is  not,  What  is  she  ?  but,  What  has  she  ?  is  all 
the  cry." 

""Madam,"  returned  he,  "I  highly  approve  the  justice,  as 
well  as  the  novelty  of  your  remarks ;  and  if  I  were  a  king,  it 
should  be  otherwise.  It  should  then,  indeed,  be  fine  times  with 
the  girls  without  fortunes  :  our  two  young  ladies  should  be  the 
first  for  whom  I  would  provide." 

"  Ah,  sir,"  returned  my  wife,  "  you  are  pleased  to  be  factious  : 
but  I  wish  I  were  a  queen,  and  then  I  know  where  my  eldest 
daughter  should  look  for  a  husband.  But,  now  that  you  have 
put  it  into  my  head,  seriously,  Mr.  Thornhill,  can't  you  recom- 
mend me  a  proper  husband  for  her  ?  She  is  now  nineteen  years 
old,  well  grown,  and  well  educated,  and,  in  my  humble  opinion, 
does  not  want  for  parts." 

"Madam,"  replied  he,  "if  I  were  to  choose,  I  would  find  out 
a  person  possessed  of  every  accomplishment  that  can  make  an 
angel  happy.  One  with  prudence,  fortune,  taste,  and 'sincerity  ; 
such,  madam,  would  be,  in  my  opinion,  the  proper  husband." 
—  "  Ay,  sir,"  said  she,  "  but  do  you  know  of  any  such  person  ? " 
—  "No,  madam,"  returned  he,  "it  is  impossible  to  know  any 
person  that  deserves  to  be  her  husband :  she's  too  great  a  treas- 
ure for  one  man's  possession ;  she's  a  goddess  !  Upon  my  soul, 
I  speak  what  I  think  —  she's  an  angel  !  "  -  —  "  Ah,  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill,  you  only  flatter  my  poor  girl :  but  we  have  been  thinking 


POWER    OF   LONG    AND    PLEASING    TEMPTATION     73 

of  marrying  her  to  one  of  your  tenants,  whose  mother  is  lately 
dead,  and  who  wants  a  manager ;  you  know  whom  I  mean,  — 
farmer  Williams ;  a  warm  man,  Mr.  Thorn  hill,  able  to  give  her 
good  bread,  and  who  has  several  times  made  her  proposals  " 
(which  was  actually  the  case);  "but,  sir,"  concluded  she,  "I 
should  be  glad  to  have  your  approbation  of  our  choice." —  "  How, 
madam,"  replied  he,  "  my  approbation  !  —  my  approbation 
of  such  a  choice !  Never.  What !  sacrifice  so  much  beauty 
and  sense,  and  goodness,  to  a  creature  insensible  of  the  blessing  ! 
Excuse  me,  I  can  never  approve  of  such  a  piece  of  injustice. 
And  I  have  my  reasons."  —  "Indeed,  sir,"  cried  Deborah,  "if 
you  have  your  reasons,  that's  another  affair ;  but  I  should  be 
glad  to  know  those  reasons." -—"  Excuse  me,  madam,"  re- 
turned he,  "  they  lie  too  deep  for  discovery  "  (laying  his  hand 
upon  his  bosom) ;  "they  remain  buried,  riveted  here." 

After  he  was  gone,  upon  a  general  consultation,  we  could 
not  tell  what  to  make  of  these  fine  sentiments.  Olivia  consid- 
ered them  as  instances  of  the  most  exalted  passion ;  but  I  was 
not  quite  so  sanguine ;  it  seemed  to  me  pretty  plain,  that  they 
had  more  of  love  than  matrimony  in  them ;  yet,  whatever  they 
might  portend,  it  was  resolved  to  prosecute  the  scheme  of  farmer 
Williams,  who,  from  my  daughter's  first  appearance  in  the  coun- 
try, had  paid  her  his  addresses. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Scarcely  any  Virtue  found  to  resist  the  Power  of  long  and  pleasing 
Temptation 

As  I  only  studied  my  child's  real  happiness,  the  assiduity  of 
Mr.  Williams  pleased  me,  as  he  was  in  easy  circumstances,  pru- 
dent, and  sincere.  It  required  but  very  little  encouragement  to 
revive  his  former  passion ;  so  that  in  an  evening  or  two  he  and 


74  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

Mr.  Thornhill  met  at  our  house,  and  surveyed  each  other  for 
some  time  with  looks  of  anger ;  but  Williams  owed  his  landlord 
no  rent,  and  little  regarded  his  indignation.  Olivia,  on  her  side, 
acted  the  coquette  to  perfection,  if  that  might  be  called  acting 
which  was  her  real  character,  pretending  to  lavish  all  her  ten- 
derness on  her  new  lover.  Mr.  Thornhill  appeared  quite  de- 
jected at  this  preference,  and  with  a  pensive  air  took  leave, 
though  I  own  it  puzzled  me  to  find  him  in  so  much  pain  as  he 
appeared  to  be,  when  he  had  it  in  his  power  so  easily  to  remove 
the  cause,  by  declaring  an  honourable  passion.  But  whatever 
uneasiness  he  seemed  to  endure,  it  could  easily  be  perceived  that 
Olivia's  anguish  was  still  greater.  After  any  of  these  interviews 
between  her  lovers,  of  which  there  were  several,  she  usually  re- 
tired to  solitude,  and  there  indulged  her  grief.  It  was  in  such 
a  situation  I  found  her  one  evening,  after  she  had  been  for  some 
time  supporting  a  fictitious  gaiety.  "  You  now  see,  my  child," 
said  I,  "  that  your  confidence  in  Mr.  Thornhill's  passion  was  all 
a  dream  :  he  permits  the  rivalry  of  another,  every  way  his  infe- 
rior, though  he  knows  it  lies  in  his  power  to  secure  you  to  him- 
self by  a  candid  declaration."  —  "  Yes,  papa,"  returned  she ;  "but 
he  has  his  reasons  for  this  delay  :  I  know  he  has.  The  sincerity 
of  his  looks  and  words  convinces  me  of  his  real  esteem.  A  short 
time,  I  hope,  will  discover  the  generosity  of  his  sentiments,  and  con- 
vince you  that  my  opinion  of  him  has  been  more  just  than  yours." 
— "Olivia,  my  darling,"  returned  I,  "every  scheme  that  has 
been  hitherto  pursued  to  compel  him  to  a  declaration  has  been 
proposed  and  planned  by  yourself;  nor  can  you  in  the  least  say 
that  I  have  constrained  you.  But  you  must  not  suppose,  my 
dear,  that  I  will  ever  be  instrumental  in  suffering  his  honest 
rival  to  be  the  dupe  of  your  ill-placed  passion.  Whatever  time 
you  require  to  bring  your  fancied  admirer  to  an  explanation  shall 
be  granted;  but  at  the  expiration  of  that  term,  if  he  is  still 
regardless,  I  must  absolutely  insist  that  honest  Mr.  Williams 
shall  be  rewarded  for  his  fidelity.  The  character  which  I  have 


POWER    OF    LONG    AND    PLEASING    TEMPTATION     75 

hitherto  supported  in  life  demands  this  from  me,  and  my  ten- 
derness as  a  parent  shall  never  influence  my  integrity  as  a  man. 
Name,  then,  your  day ;  let  it  be  as  distant  as  you  think  proper ; 
and  in  the  meantime,  take  care  to  let  Mr.  Thornhill  know  the 
exact  time  on  which  I  design  delivering  you  up  to  another.  If 
he  really  loves  you,  his  own  good  sense  will  readily  suggest  that 
there  is  but  one  method  alone  to  prevent  his  losing  you  for  ever." 
This  proposal,  which  she  could  not  avoid  considering  as  perfectly 
just,  was  readily  agreed  to.  She  again  renewed  her  most  posi- 
tive promise  of  marrying  Mr.  Williams,  in  case  of  the  other's 
insensibility;  and  at  the  next  opportunity,  in  Mr.  ThornhuTs 
presence,  that  day  month  was  fixed  upon  for  her  nuptials  with 
his  rival. 

Such  vigorous  proceedings  seemed  to  redouble  Mr.  Thornhill's 
anxiety :  but  what  Olivk  really  felt  gave  me  some  uneasiness. 
In  this  struggle  between  prudence  and  passion,  her  vivacity 
quite  forsook  her,  and  every  opportunity  of  solitude  was  sought, 
and  spent  in  tears.  One  week  passed  away ;  but  Mr.  Thornhill 
made  no  efforts  to  restrain  her  nuptials.  The  succeeding  week 
he  was  still  assiduous,  but  not  more  open.  On  the  third  he  dis- 
continued his  visits  entirely,  and  instead  of  my  daughter  testify- 
ing any  impatience,  as  I  expected,  she  seemed  to  retain  a  pensive 
tranquillity,  which  I  looked  upon  as  resignation.  For  my  own 
part,  I  was  now  sincerely  pleased  with  thinking  that  my  child 
was  going  to  be  secured  in  a  continuance  of  competence  and 
peace,  and  frequently  applauded  her  resolution,  in  preferring 
happiness  to  ostentation. 

It  was  within  about  four  days  of  her  intended  nuptials,  that 
my  little  family  at  night  were  gathered  round  a  charming  fire, 
telling  stories  of  the  past,  and  laying  schemes  for  the  future : 
busied  in  forming  a  thousand  projects,  and  laughing  at  whatever 
folly  came  uppermost.  "  Well,  Moses,"  cried  I,  "  we  shall  soon, 
my  boy,  have  a  wedding  in  the  family  :  what  is  your  opinion  of 
matters  and  things  in  general  1 "  —  "  My  opinion,  father,  is,  that 


76  .    THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

all  things  go  on  very  well :  and  I  was  just  now  thinking,  that 
when  sister  Livy  is  married  to  farmer  Williams,  we  shall  then 
have  the  loan  of  his  cider-press  and  brewing-tubs  for  nothing." 
—  "  That  we  shall,  Moses,"  cried  I,  "and  he  will  sing  us  'Death 
and  the  Lady,'0  to  raise  our  spirits  into  the  bargain."  —  "He 
has  taught  that  song  to  our  Dick,"  cried  Moses;  "and  I  think 
he  goes  through  it  very  prettily."  —  "Does  he  so?"  cried  I; 
"then  let  us  have  it:  where's  little  Dick?  let  him  up  with  it 
boldly."  —  "My  brother  Dick,"  cried  Bill,  my  youngest,  "is 
just  gone  out  with  sister  Livy :  but  Mr.  Williams  has  taught 
me  two  songs,  and  I'll  sing  them  for  you,  papa.  Which  song 
do  you  choose,  The  Dying  Swan,  or  the  Elegy  on  the  Death  of 
a  Mad  Dog?"  —  " The  elegy,  child,  by  all  means,"  said  I ;  "  I 
never  heard  that  yet ;  and  Deborah,  my  life,  grief,  you  know,  is 
dry ;  let  us  have  a  bottle  of  the  best  gooseberry  wine,  to  keep 
up  our  spirits.  I  have  wept  so  much  at  all  sorts  of  elegies  of 
late,  that  without  an  enlivening  glass  I  am  sure  this  will  over- 
come me ;  and  Sophy,  love,  take  your  guitar  and  thrum  in  with 
the  boy  a  little." 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG0 

GOOD  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song, 
And  if  you  find  it  wond'rous  short, 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say 
That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, 

Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes ; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 
As  many  dogs  there  be, 


POWER    OF   LONG    AND    PLEASING    TEMPTATION     11 

Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 
And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighbouring  streets 

The  wond'ring  neighbours  ran, 
And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 

That  show'd  the  rogues  they  lied : 
The  man  recovered  of  the  bite  — 

The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

"  A  very  good  boy,  Bill,  upon  my  word ;  and  an  elegy  that 
may  truly  be  called  tragical.  Come,  my  children,  here's  Bill's 
health,  and  may  he  one  day  be  a  bishop ! " 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  cried  my  wife  :  "  and  if  he  but  preaches 
as  well  as  he  sings,  I  make  no  doubt  of  him.  The  most  of  his 
family,  by  the  mother's  side,  could  sing  a  good  song :  it  was  a 
common  saying  in  our  country,  that  the  family  of  the  Blenkin- 
sops  could  never  look  straight  before  them,  nor  the  Hugginsons 
blow  out  a  candle  ;  that  there  were  none  of  the  Grograms  but 
could  sing  a  song,  or  of  the  Marjorams  but  could  tell  a  story."  — 
" However  that  be,"  cried  I,  "the  most  vulgar  ballad  of  them 
all  generally  pleases  me  better  than  the  fine  modern  odes,0  and 
things  that  petrify  us  in  a  single  stanza,  —  productions  that  we 
at  once  detest  and  praise.  —  Put  the  glass  to  your  brother, 
Moses.  —  The  great  fault  of  these  elegiasts  is,  that  they  are  in 
despair  for  griefs  that  give  the  sensible  part  of  mankind  very 
little  pain.  A  lady  loses  her  muff,  her  fan,  or  her  lap-dog,  and 
so  the  silly  poet  runs  home  to  versify  the  disaster." 


78  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

"That  maybe  the  mode,"  cried  Moses,  "in  sublimer  com- 
positions :  but  the  Ranelagh0  songs  that  come  down  to  us  are 
perfectly  familiar,  and  all  cast  in  the  same  mould  :  Colin  meets 
Dolly,  and  they  hold  a  dialogue  together ;  he  gives  her  a  fair- 
ing0 to  put  in  her  hair,  and  she  presents  him  with  a  nosegay ; 
and  then  they  go  together  to  church,  where  they  give  good  ad- 
vice to  young  nymphs  and  swains0  to  get  married  as  fast  as  they 
can." 

"And  very  good  advice  too,"  cried  I :  "and  I  am  told  there 
is  not  a  place  in  the  world  where  advice  can  be  given  with  so 
much  propriety  as  there  :  for  as  it  persuades  us  to  marry,  it 
also  furnishes  us  with  a  wife ;  and  surely  that  must  be  an  ex- 
cellent market,  my  boy,  where  we  are  told  what  we  want,  and 
supplied  with  it  when  wanting." 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  Moses,  "and  I  know  but  of  two  such 
markets  for  wives  in  Europe,  —  Ranelagh  in  England,  and 
Fontarabia  in  Spain.0  The  Spanish  market  is  open  once  a  year ; 
but  our  English  wives  are  saleable  every  night." 

"You  are  right,  my  boy,"  cried  his  mother;  "Old  England 
is  the  only  place  in  the  world  for  husbands  to  get  wives."  — 
"And  for  wives  to  manage  their  husbands,"  interrupted  I. 
"It  is  a  proverb  abroad,  that  if  a  bridge  were  built  across  the 
sea,  all  the  ladies  of  the  Continent  would  come  over  to  take 
pattern  from  ours ;  for  there  are  no  such  wives  in  Europe  as 
our  own.  But  let  us  have  one  bottle  more,  Deborah,  my  life ; 
and,  Moses,  give  us  a  good  song.  What  thanks  do  we  not  owe 
to  Heaven  for  thus  bestowing  tranquillity,  health,  and  compe- 
tence !  I  think  myself  happier  now  than  the  greatest  monarch 
upon  earth.  He  has  no  such  fireside,  nor  such  pleasant  faces 
about  it.  Yes,  Deborah,  we  are  now  growing  old ;  but  the 
evening  of  our  life  is  likely  to  be  happy.  We  are  descended 
from  ancestors  that  knew  no  stain,  and  we  shall  leave  a  good 
and  virtuous  race  of  children  behind  us.  While  we  live,  they 
will  be  our  support  and  our  pleasure  here;  and  when  we  die,  they 


POWER    OF  LONG    AND    PLEASING    TEMPTATION     79 

will  transmit  our  honour  untainted  to  posterity.  Come,  my 
son,  we  wait  for  a  song :  let  us  have  a  chorus.  But  where  is 
my  darling  Olivia  1  °  that  little  cherub's  voice  is  always  sweetest 
in  the  concert."  Just  as  I  spoke  Dick  came  running  in.  "  0 
papa,  papa,  she  is  gone  from  us,  she  is  gone  from  us ;  my  sister 
Livy  is  gone  from  us  for  ever  !  "  -  —  "  Gone,  child  ! "  —  "  Yes, 
she  is  gone  off  with  two  gentlemen  in  a  post-chaise,  and  one  of 
them  kissed  her,  and  said  he  would  die  for  her :  and  she  cried 
very  much,  and  was  for  coming  back;  but  he  persuaded  her 
again,  and  she  went  into  the  chaise,  and  said,  l  Oh,  what  will 
my  poor  papa  do  when  he  knows  I  am  undone  !  "  —  "  Now, 
then,"  cried  I,  "my  children,  go  and  be  miserable ;  for  we  shall 
never  enjoy  one  hour  more.  And  oh,  may  Heaven's  everlasting 
fury  light  upon  him  and  his  !  —  thus  to  rob  me  of  my  child  ! 
And  sure  it  will,  for  taking  back  my  sweet  innocent  that  I  was 
leading  up  to  Heaven.  Such  sincerity  as  my  child  was  pos- 
sessed of !  But  all  our  earthly  happiness  is  now  over !  Go, 
my  children,  go  and  be  miserable  and  infamous ;  for  my  heart  is 
broken  within  me  !  "  —  "Father,"  cried  my  son,  "  is  this  your 
fortitude ?"•  — " Fortitude,  child? — yes,  ye  shall  see  I  have 
fortitude  !  Bring  me  my  pistols.  I'll  pursue  the  traitor  — 
while  he  is  on  earth  I'll  pursue  him.  Old  as  I  am,  he  shall  find 
I  can  sting  him  yet.  The  villain,  the  perfidious  villain  ! "  I 
had  by  this  time  reached  down  my  pistols,  when  my  poor  wife, 
whose  passions  were  not  so  strong  as  mine,  caught  me  in  her 
arms.  "My  dearest,  dearest  husband  !  "  cried  she,  "the  Bible 
is  the  only  weapon  that  is  fit  for  your  old  hands  now.  Open 
that,  my  love,  and  read  our  anguish  into  patience,  for  she  has 
vilely  deceived  us." — "Indeed,  sir,"  resumed  my  son,  after  a 
pause,  "  your  rage  is  too  violent  and  unbecoming.  You  should 
be  my  mother's  comforter,  and  you  increase  her  pain.  It  ill 
suited  you  and  your  reverend  character  thus  to  curse  your 
greatest  enemy :  you  should  not  have  cursed  him,  villain  as  he 
is."  —  "I  did  not  curse  him,  child,  did  I?" — "Indeed,  sir, 


80  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

you  did ;  you  cursed  him  twice." — "  Then  may  Heaven  forgive  me 
and  him  if  I  did  !  And  now,  my  son,  I  see  it  was  more  than  human 
benevolence  that  first  taught  us  to  bless  our  enemies  :  Blessed 
be  His  holy  name  for  all  the  good  He  hath  given,  and  for  all  that 
He  hath  taken  away.  But  it  is  not — it  is  not  a  small  distress 
that  can  wring  tears  from  these  old  eyes,  that  have  not  wept  for 
so  many  years.  My  child  !  to  undo  my  darling  !  —  May  confusion 

seize Heaven  forgive  me  !  what  am  I  about  to  say  !  —  you 

may  remember,  my  love,  how  good  she  was,  and  how  charming  : 
till  this  vile  moment  all  her  care  was  to  make  us  happy.  Had 
she  but  died  !  But  she  is  gone,  the  honour  of  our  family  con- 
taminated, and  I  must  look  out  for  happiness  in  other  worlds 
than  here.  But,  my  child,  you  saw  them  go  off :  perhaps  he 
forced  her  away  ?  If  he  forced  her,  she  may  yet  be  innocent." 
—  "  Ah,  no,  sir,"  cried  the  child ;  "  he  only  kissed  her,  and 
called  her  his  angel,  and  she  wept  very  much,  and  leaned  upon 
his  arm,  and  they  drove  off  very  fast."  —  "She's  an  ungrateful 
creature,"  cried  my  wife,  who  could  scarcely  speak  for  weeping, 
"  to  use  us  thus.  She  never  had  the  least  constraint  put  upon 
her  affections.  The  vile  strumpet  has  basely  deserted  her 
parents  without  any  provocation,  thus  to  bring  your  grey  hairs 
to  the  grave ;  and  I  must  shortly  follow." 

In  this  manner  that  night,  the  first  of  our  real  misfortunes, 
was  spent  in  the  bitterness  of  complaint,  and  ill-supported 
sallies  of  enthusiasm.  I  determined,  however,  to  find  out  our 
betrayer,  wherever  he  was,  and  reproach  his  baseness.  The 
next  morning  we  missed  our  wretched  child  at  breakfast,  where 
she  used  to  give  life  and  cheerfulness  to  us  all.  My  wife,  as 
before,  attempted  to  ease  her  heart  by  reproaches.  "  Never," 
cried  she,  "shall  that  vilest  stain  of  our  family  again  darken 
these  harmless  doors.  I  will  never  call  her  daughter  more. 
No,  let  the  strumpet  live  with  her  vile  seducer :  she  may  bring 
us  to  shame,  but  she  shall  never  more  deceive  us." 

"Wife,"  said  I,  "do  not  talk  thus  hardly:  my  detestation 


THE    PURSUIT  81 

of  her  guilt  is  as  great  as  yours ;  but  ever  shall  this  house  and 
this  heart  be  open  to  a  poor  returning  repentant  sinner.  The 
sooner  she  returns  from  her  transgressions,  the  more  welcome 
shall  she  be  to  me.  For  the  first  time  the  very  best  may  err ; 
art  may  persuade,  and  novelty  spread  out  its  charm.  The  first 
fault  is  the  child  of  simplicity,  but  every  other,  the  offspring 
of  guilt.  Yes,  the  wretched  creature  shall  be  welcome  to  this 
heart  and  this  house,  though  stained  with  ten  thousand  vices. 
I  will  again  hearken  to  the  music  of  her  voice,  again  will  I 
hang  fondly  on  her  bosom,  if  I  find  but  repentance  there.  My 
son,  bring  hither  my  Bible  and  my  staff:  I  will  pursue  her, 
wherever  she  is ;  and  though  I  cannot  save  her  from  shame,  I 
may  prevent  the  continuance  of  iniquity." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

The  Pursuit  of  a  Father  to  reclaim  a  lost  Child  to  Virtue 

THOUGH  the  child  could  not  describe  the  gentleman's  person 
who  handed  his  sister  into  the  post-chaise,  yet  my  suspicions 
fell  entirely  upon  our  young  landlord,  whose  character  for  such 
intrigues  was  but  too  well  known.  I  therefore  directed  my 
steps  towards  Thorn  hill  Castle,  resolving  to  upbraid  him,  and, 
if  possible,  to  bring  back  my  daughter  :  but  before  I  had  reached 
his  seat,  I  was  met  by  one  of  my  parishioners,  who  said  he  saw 
a  young  lady  resembling  my  daughter  in  a  post-chaise  with  a 
gentleman,  whom  by  the  description  I  could  only  guess  to  be 
Mr.  Burchell,  and  that  they  drove  very  fast.  This  information, 
however,  did  by  no  means  satisfy  me.  I  therefore  went  to  the 
young  Squire's,  and,  though  it  was  yet  early,  insisted  upon  see- 
ing him  immediately.  He  soon  appeared  with  the  most  open 
familiar  air,  and  seemed  perfectly  amazed  at  my  daughter's 
elopement,  protesting,  upon  his  honour,  that  he  was  quite  a 


82  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

stranger  to  it.  I  now  therefore  condemned  my  former  sus- 
picions, and  could  turn  them  only  on  Mr.  Burchell,  who,  I 
recollected,  had  of  late  several  private  conferences  with  her; 
but  the  appearance  of  another  witness  left  me  no  room  to  doubt 
his  villany,  who  averred,  that  he  and  my  daughter  were  actu- 
ally gone  towards  the  Wells,0  about  thirty  miles  off,  where 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  company.  Being  driven  to  that 
state  of  mind  in  which  we  all  are  more  ready  to  act  precipi- 
tately than  to  reason  right,  I  never  debated  with  myself  whether 
these  accounts  might  not  have  been  given  by  persons  purposely 
placed  in  my  way  to  mislead  me,  but  resolved  to  pursue  my 
daughter  and  her  fancied  deluder  thither.  I  walked  along  with 
earnestness,  and  inquired  of  several  by  the  way ;  but  received 
no  accounts,  till,  entering  the  town,  I  was  met  by  a  person  on 
horseback,  whom  I  remembered  to  have  seen  at  the  Squire's/ 
and  he  -assured  me  that  if  I  followed  them  to  the  races,  which 
were  but  thirty  miles  farther,  I  might  depend  upon  overtaking 
them ;  for  he  had  seen  them  dance  there  the  night  before,  and 
the  whole  assembly  seemed  charmed  with  my  daughter's  per- 
formance. Early  the  next  day,  I  walked  forward  to  the  races, 
and  about  four  in  the  afternoon  I  came  upon  the  course.  The 
company  made  a  very  brilliant  appearance,  all  earnestly  em- 
ployed in  one  pursuit,  —  that  of  pleasure  :  how  different  from 
mine,  —  that  of  reclaiming  a  lost  child  to  virtue  !  I  thought 
I  perceived  Mr.  Burchell  at  some  distance  from  me;  but,  as  if 
he  dreaded  an  interview,  upon  my  approaching  him  he  mixed 
among  a  crowd,  and  I  saw  him  no  more. 

I  now  reflected  that  it  would  be  to  no  purpose  to  continue 
my  pursuit  farther,  and  resolved  to  return  home  to  an  innocent 
family,  who  wanted  my  assistance.  But  the  agitations  of  my 
mind,  and  the  fatigues  I  had  undergone,  threw  me  into  a  fever, 
the  symptoms  of  which  I  perceived  before  I  came  off  the  course. 
This  was  another  unexpected  stroke,  as  I  was  more  than  seventy 
miles  distant  from  home  :  however,  I  retired  to  a  little  alehouse 


THE    PURSUIT  83 

by  the  roadside ;  and  in  this  place,  the  usual  retreat  of  indigence 
and  frugality,  I  laid  me  down  patiently  to  wait  the  issue  of  my 
disorder.  I  languished  here  for  near  three  weeks ;  but  at  last 
my  constitution  prevailed,  though  I  was  unprovided  with  money 
to  defray  the  expenses  of  my  entertainment.  It  is  possible  the 
anxiety  from  this  last  circumstance  alone  might  have  brought 
on  a  relapse,  had  I  not  been  supplied  by  a  traveller,  who  stopped 
to  take  a  cursory  refreshment.  This  person  was  no  other  than 
the  philanthropic  bookseller0  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard  who  has 
written  so  many  little  books  for  children  :  he  called  himself 
their  friend,  but  he  was  the  friend  of  all  mankind.  He  was  no 
sooner  alighted,  but  he  was  in  haste  to  be  gone ;  for  he  was 
ever  on  business  of  the  utmost  importance,  and  was  at  that  time 
actually  compiling  materials  for  the  history  of  one  Mr.  Thomas 
Trip.0  I  immediately  recollected  this  good-natured  man's  red 
pimpled  face ;  for  he  had  published  for  me  against  the  Deuter- 
ogamists0  of  the  age ;  and  from  him  I  borrowed  a  few  pieces,  to 
be  paid  at  my  return.  Leaving  the  inn,  therefore,  as  I  was  yet 
but  weak,  I  resolved  to  return  home  by  easy  journeys  of  ten 
miles  a  day.  My  health  and  usual  tranquillity  were  almost 
restored,  and  I  now  condemned  that  pride  which  had  made  me 
refractory  to  the  hand  of  correction.  Man  little  knows  what 
calamities  are  beyond  his  patience  to  bear,  till  he  tries  them : 
as  in  ascending  the  heights  of  ambition,  which  look  bright  from 
below,  every  step  we  rise  shows  us  some  new  and  gloomy  pros- 
pect of  hidden  disappointment;  so  in  our  descent  from  the 
summits  of  pleasure,  though  the  vale  of  misery  below  may  ap- 
pear at  first  dark  and  gloomy,  yet  the  busy  mind,  still  attentive 
to  its  own  amusement,  finds,  as  we  descend,  something  to  flatter 
and  to  please.  Still0  as  we  approach,  the  darkest  objects 
appear  to  brighten,  and  the  mental  eye  becomes  adapted  to  its 
gloomy  situation. 

I  now  proceeded  forward,  and  had  walked  about  two  hours, 
when  I  perceived  what  appeared  at  a  distance  like  a  waggon, 


84     .  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

which  I  was  resolved  to  overtake ;  but  when  I  came  up  with  it, 
found  it  to  be  a  strolling  company's  cart,  that  was  carrying 
their  scenes  and  other  theatrical  furniture  to  the  next  village, 
where  they  were  to  exhibit.  The  cart  was  attended  only  by 
the  person  who  drove  it,  and  one  of  the  company,  as  the  rest  of 
the  players  were  to  follow  the  ensuing  day.  "  Good  company 
upon  the  road,"  says  the  proverb,  "is  the  shortest  cut."  I 
therefore  entered  into  conversation  with  the  poor  player;  and 
as  I  once  had  some  theatrical  powers  myself,  I  disserted  on 
such  topics  with  my  usual  freedom  :  but  as  I  was  pretty  much 
unacquainted  with  the  present  state  of  the  stage,  I  demanded 
who  were  the  present  theatrical  writers  in  vogue  —  who  the 
Drydens  and  Otways  of  the  day? — "I  fancy,  sir,"  cried  the 
player,  "few  of  our  modern  dramatists  would  think  themselves 
much  honoured,  by  being  compared  to  the  writers  you  mention. 
Dryden's  and  Howe's  manner,  sir,  are  quite  out  of  fashion  :  our 
taste  has  gone  back  a  whole  century  ;  Fletcher,  Ben  Jonson, 
and  all  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  are  the  only  things  that  go 
down."  c  —  "  How,"  cried  I,  "  is  it  possible  the  present  age  can 
be  pleased  with  that  antiquated  dialect,  that  obsolete  humour, 
those  overcharged  characters,  which  abound  in  the  works  you 
mention  ?  "  •  —  "  Sir,"  returned  my  companion,  "  the  public  think 
nothing  about  dialect,  or  humour,  or  character,  for  that  is  none 
of  their  business  ;  they  only  go  to  be  amused,  and  find  them- 
selves happy  when  they  can  enjoy  a  pantomime,  under  the 
sanction  of  Jonson's  or  Shakespeare's  name."  —  "So,  then,  I 
suppose,"  cried  I,  "that  our  modern  dramatists  are  rather 
imitators  of  Shakespeare  than  of  nature."  —  "  To  say  the  truth," 
returned  my  companion,  "  I  don't  know  that  they  imitate  any- 
thing at  all ;  nor,  indeed,  does  the  public  require  it  of  them  ;  it 
is  not  the  composition  of  the  piece,  but  the  number  of  starts 
and  attitudes  that  may  be  introduced  into  it,  that  elicits 
applause.  I  have  known  a  piece,  with  not  one  jest  in  the  whole, 
shrugged  into  popularity,  and  another  saved,  by  the  poet's 


THE    PURSUIT  85 

throwing  in  a  fit  of  the  gripes.  No,  sir,  the  works  of  Congreve 
and  Farquhar0  have  too  much  wit  in  them  for  the  present 
taste  ;  our  modern  dialect  is  much  more  natural." 

By  this  time,  the  equipage  of  the  strolling  company  was 
arrived  at  the  village,  which,  it  seems,  had  been  apprised  of  our 
approach,  and  was  come  out  to  gaze  at  us ;  for  my  companion 
observed,  that  strollers  always  have  more  spectators  without 
doors  than  within.  I  did  not  consider  the  impropriety  of  my 
being  in  such  company,  till  I  saw  a  mob  gather  about  me.  I 
therefore  took  shelter,  as  fast  as  possible,  in  the  first  alehouse 
that  offered;  and  being  shown  into  the  common  room,  was 
accosted  by  a  very  well-dressed  gentleman,  who  demanded 
whether  I  was  the  real  chaplain  of  the  company,  or  whether 
it  was  only  to  be  my  masquerade  character  in  the  play  ?  Upon 
informing  him  of  the  truth,  and  that  I  did  not  belong,  in  any 
sort,  to  the  company,  he  was  condescending  enough  to  desire 
me  and  the  player  to  partake  in  a  bowl  of  punch,  over  which 
he  discussed  modern  politics  with  great  earnestness  and  interest. 
I  set  him  down,  in  my  own  mind,  for  nothing  less  than  a  par- 
liament-man at  least ;  but  was  almost  confirmed  in  my  conjec- 
tures, when,  upon  asking  what  there  was  in  the  house  for 
supper,  he  insisted  that  the  player  and  I  should  sup  with  him 
at  his  house;  with  which  request,  after  some  entreaties,  we 
were  prevailed  on  to  comply. 

CHAPTER   XIX 

The  Description  of  a  Person  discontented  with  the  present  Govern- 
ment, and  apprehensive  of  the  Loss  of  our  Liberties 

THE  house  where  we  were  to  be  entertained  lying  at  a  small 
distance  from  the  village,  our  inviter  observed,  that  as  the  coach 
was  not  ready,  he  would  conduct  us  on  foot ;  and  we  soon 
arrived  at  one  of  the  most  magnificent  mansions  I  had  seen  in 


86  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

that  part  of  the  country.  The  apartment  into  which  we  were 
shown  was  perfectly  elegant  and  modern :  he  went  to  give 
orders  for  supper,  while  the  player,  with  a  wink,  observed  that 
we  were  perfectly  in  luck.  Our  entertainer  soon  returned ;  an 
elegant  supper  was  brought  in  ;  two  or  three  ladies  in  easy  dis- 
habille were  introduced,  and  the  conversation  began  with  some 
sprightliness.  Politics,  however,  was  the  subject  on  which  our 
entertainer  chiefly  expatiated ;  for  he  asserted  that  liberty  was 
at  once  his  boast  and  his  terror.  After  the  cloth  was  removed, 
he  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  the  last  Monitor?0  to  which,  reply- 
ing in  the  negative,  "  What !  nor  the  Auditor0  I  suppose  ? " 
cried  he.  "  Neither,  sir,"  returned  I.  "  That's  strange,  very 
strange  !  "  replied  my  entertainer.  "  Now  I  read  all  the  poli- 
tics that  come  out :  the  Daily,  the  Public,  the  Ledger,0  the 
Chronicle,  the  London  Evening,  the  Whitehall  Evening,  the  sev- 
enteen Magazines,  and  the  two  Reviews ;  and,  though  they  hate 
each  other,  I  love  them  all.  Liberty,  sir,  liberty  is  the  Briton's 
boast !  and,  by  all  my  coal-mines  in  Cornwall,  I  reverence  its 
guardians."  —  "Then,  it  is  to  be  hoped,"  cried  I,  "you  rever- 
ence the  king?'"  —"Yes,"  returned  my  entertainer,  "  when  he 
does  what  we  would  have  him ;  but  if  he  goes  on  as  he  has 
done  of  late,  I'll  never  trouble  myself  more  with  his  matters. 
I  say  nothing.  I  think  only.  I  could  have  directed  some 
things  better.  I  don't  think  there  has  been  a  sufficient  number 
of  advisers  :  he  should  advise  with  every  person  willing  to  give 
him  advice,  and  then  we  should  have  things  done  in  ahother- 
guess0  manner." 

"I  wish,"  cried  I,  "that  such  intruding  advisers  were  fixed 
in  the  pillory.  It  should  be  the  duty  of  honest  men  to  assist 
the  weaker  side  of  our  constitution,  that  sacred  power  that  has 
for  some  years  been  every  day  declining,  and  losing  its  due  share 
of  influence  in  the  State.  But  these  ignorants  still  continue 
the  same  cry  of  liberty,  and,  if  they  have  any  weight,  basely 
throw  it  into  the  subsiding  scale." 


A    DISCONTENTED    POLITICIAN  87 

"How!"  cried  one  of  the  ladies,  "do  I  live  to  see  one  so 
base,  so  sordid,  as  to  be  an  enemy  to  liberty,  and  a  defender 
of  tyrants  ?  Liberty,  that  sacred  gift  of  Heaven,  that  glorious 
privilege  of  Britons  !  " 

"Can  it  be  possible,"  cried  our  entertainer,  "that  there 
should  be  any  found  at  present  advocates  for  slavery?  Any 
who  are  for  meanly  giving  up  the  privileges  of  Britons  ?  Can 
any,  sir,  be  so  abject  1 " 

"No,  sir,"0  replied  I,  "  I  am  for  liberty!  that  attribute  of 
gods  !  Glorious  liberty  !  that  theme  of  modern  declamation  ! 
I  would  have  all  men  kings  !  I  would  be  a  king  myself.  We 
have  all  naturally  an  equal  right  to  the  throne :  we  are  all 
originally  equal.  This  is  my  opinion,  and  was  once  the  opinion 
of  a  set  of  honest  men  who  were  called  Levellers.0  They  tried 
to  erect  themselves  into  a  community,  where  all  should  be 
equally  free.  But,  alas  !  it  would  never  answer :  for  there 
were  some  among  them  stronger,  and  some  more  cunning,  than 
others,  and  these  became  masters  of  the  rest ;  for,  as  sure  as 
your  groom  rides  your  horses,  because  he  is  a  cunninger  animal 
than  they,  so  surely  will  the  animal  that  is  cunninger  or 
stronger  than  he,  sit  upon  his  shoulders  in  turn.  Since,  then, 
it  is  entailed  upon  humanity  to  submit,  and  some  are  born  to 
command0  and  others  to  obey,  the  question  is,  as  there  must 
be  tyrants,  whether  it  is  better  to  have  them  in  the  same  house 
with  us,  or  in  the  same  village,  or,  still  farther  off,  in  the  me- 
tropolis. Now,  sir,  for  my  own  part,  as  I  naturally  hate  the 
face  of  a  tyrant,  the  farther  off  he  is  removed  from  me  the 
better  pleased  am  I.  The  generality  of  mankind  also  are  of 
my  way  of  thinking,  and  have  unanimously  created  one  king, 
whose  election  at  once  diminishes  the  number  of  tyrants,  and 
puts  tyranny  at  the  greatest  distance  from  the  greatest  number 
of  people.  Now  the  great,  who  were  tyrants  themselves  before 
the  election  of  one  tyrant,  are  naturally  averse  to  a  power  raised 
over  them,  and  whose  weight  must  ever  lean  heaviest  on  the 


88  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

subordinate  orders.  It  is  the  interest  of  the  great,  therefore, 
to  diminish  kingly  power  as  much  as  possible ;  because,  what- 
ever they  take  from  that  is  naturally  restored  to  themselves ; 
and  all  they  have  to  do  in  the  state  is  to  undermine  the  single 
tyrant,  by  which  they  resume  their  primeval  authority.  Now 
the  state  may  be  so  circumstanced,  or  its  laws  may  be  so  dis- 
posed, or  its  men  of  opulence  so  minded,  as  all  to  conspire  in 
carrying  on  this  business  of  undermining  monarchy.  For,  in 
the  first  place,  if  the  circumstances  of  our  state  be  such  as  to 
favour  the  accumulation  of  wealth,  and  make  the  opulent  still 
more  rich,  this  will  increase  their  ambition.  An  accumulation 
of  wealth,  however,  must  necessarily  be  the  consequence,  when, 
as  at  present,  more  riches  flow  in  from  external  commerce  than 
arise  from  internal  industry;  for  external  commerce  can  only 
be  managed  to  advantage  by  the  rich,  and  they  have  also  at 
the  same  time  all  the  emoluments  arising  from  internal  indus- 
try ;  so  that  the  rich,  with  us,  have  two  sources  of  wealth, 
whereas  the  poor  have  but  one.  For  this  reason,  wealth,  in 
all  commercial  states,  is  found  to  accumulate;  and  all  such 
have  hitherto  in  time  become  aristocratical.  Again,  the  very 
laws  also  of  this  country  may  contribute  to  the  accumulation 
of  wealth ;  as  when,  by  their  means,  the  natural  ties  that  bind 
the  rich  and  poor  together  are  broken,  and  it  is  ordained  that 
the  rich  shall  only  marry  with  the  rich ;  or  when  the  learned 
are  held  unqualified  to  serve  their  country  as  counsellors, 
merely  from  a  defect  of  opulence,  and  wealth  is  thus  made 
the  object  of  a  wise  man's  ambition :  by  these  means,  I  say, 
and  such  means  as  these,  riches  will  accumulate.  Now,  the 
possessor  of  accumulated  wealth,  when  furnished  with  the  neces- 
saries and  pleasures  of  life,  has  no  other  method  to  employ  the 
superfluity  of  his  fortune  but  in  purchasing  power.  That  is, 
differently  speaking,  in  making  dependants,  by  purchasing  the 
liberty  of  the  needy  or  the  venal,  of  men  who  are  willing  to 
bear  the  mortification  of  conii^upus  tyranny  for  bread.  Thus 


A    DISCONTENTED    POLITICIAN  89 

each  very  opulent  man  generally  gathers  round  him  a  circle  of 
the  poorest  of  the  people  ;  and  the  polity  abounding  in  accumu- 
lated wealth  may  be  compared  to  a  Cartesian  system,0  each 
orb  with  a  vortex  of  its  own.  Those,  however,  who  are  will- 
ing to  move  in  a  great  man's  vortex,  are  only  such  as  must  be 
slaves,  the  rabble  of  mankind,  whose  souls  and  whose  educa- 
tion are  adapted  to  servitude,  and  who  know  nothing  of  liberty 
except  the  name.  But  there  must  still  be  a  large  number  of 
the  people  without  the  sphere  of  the  opulent  man's  influence ; 
namely,  that  order  of  men  which  subsists  between  the  very  rich 
and  the  very  rabble ;  those  men  who  are  possessed  of  too  large 
fortunes  to  submit  to  the  neighbouring  man  in  power,  and  yet 
are  too  poor  to  set  up  for  tyranny  themselves.  In  this  middle 
order  of  mankind  are  generally  to  be  found  all  the  arts,  wisdom, 
and  virtues  of  society.  This  order  alone  is  known  to  be  the 
true  preserver  of  freedom,  and  may  be  called  THE  PEOPLE. 
Now,  it  may  happen  that  this  middle  order  of  mankind  may 
lose  all  its  influence  in  a  state,  and  its  voice  be  in  a  manner 
drowned  in  that  of  the  rabble  :  for  if  the  fortune  sufficient  for 
qualifying  a  person  at  present  to  give  his  voice  in  state  affairs 
be  ten  times  less  than  was  judged  sufficient  upon  forming  the 
constitution,  it  is  evident  that  great  numbers  of  the  rabble  will 
thus  be  introduced  into  the  political  system,  and  they,  ever 
moving  in  the  vortex  of  the  great,  will  follow  where  greatness 
shall  direct.  In  such  a  state,  therefore,  all  that  the  middle 
order  has  left,  is  to  preserve  the  prerogative  and  privileges  of 
the  one  principal  governor  with  the  most  sacred  circumspection. 
For  he  divides  the  power  of  the  rich,  and  calls  off  the  great 
from  falling  with  tenfold  weight  on  the  middle  order  placed 
beneath  them.  The  middle  order  may  be  compared  to  a  town 
of  which  the  opulent  are  forming  the  siege,  and  of  which  the  gov- 
ernor from  without  is  hastening  the  relief.  While  the  besiegers 
are  in  dread  of  an  enemy  over  them,  it  is  but  natural  to  offer 
the  townsmen  the  most  specious  terms ;  to  flatter  them  with 


90  THE     VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELT) 

sounds,  and  amuse  them  with  privileges;  but  if  they  once 
defeat  the  governor  from  behind,  the  walls  of  the  town  will 
be  but  a  small  defence  to  its  inhabitants.  What  they  may 
then  expect,  may  be  seen  by  turning  our  eyes  to  Holland, 
Genoa,  or  Venice,  where  the  laws  govern  the  poor,0  and  the 
rich  govern  the  law.  I  am  then  for,  and  would  die  for  mon- 
archy, sacred  monarchy  :  for  if  there  be  anything  sacred  amongst 
men,  it  must  be  the  anointed  SOVEREIGN  of  his  people;  and 
every  diminution  of  his  power,  in  war  or  in  peace,  is  an  infringe- 
ment upon  the  real  liberties  of  the  subject.  The  sounds  of 
Liberty,  Patriotism,  and  Britons,  have  already  done  much;  it 
is  to  be  hoped  that  the  true  sons  of  freedom  will  prevent  their 
ever  doing  more.  I  have  known  many  of  these  pretended 
champions  for  liberty  in  my  time,  yet  do  I  not  remember  one 
that  was  not  in  his  heart  and  in  his  family  a  tyrant." 

My  warmth,  I  found,  had  lengthened  this  harangue  beyond 
the  rules  of  good  breeding;  but  the  impatience  of  my  enter- 
tainer, who  often  strove  to  interrupt  it,  could  be  restrained  no 
longer.  "  What !  "  cried  he,  "  then  I  have  been  all  this  while 
entertaining  a  Jesuit  in  parson's  clothes  !  But,  by  all  the  coal- 
mines of  Cornwall,  out  he  shall  pack,  if  my  name  be  Wilkin- 
son." I  now  found  I  had  gone  too  far,  and  asked  pardon  for 
the  warmth  with  which  I  had  spoken.  "Pardon  !"  returned 
he  in  a  fury :  "I  think  such  principles  demand  ten  thousand 
pardons.  What !  give  up  liberty,  property,  and  as  the  Gazet- 
teer says,  lie  down  to  be  saddled  with  wooden  shoes  !°  Sir,  I 
insist  upon  your  marching  out  of  this  house  immediately,  to 
prevent  worse  consequences :  sir,  I  insist  upon  it."  I  was 
going  to  repeat  my  remonstrances,  but  just  then  we  heard  a 
footman's  rap  at  the  door,  and  the  two  ladies  cried  out,  "  As 
sure  as  death,  there  is  our  master  and  mistress  come  home ! " 
It  seems  my  entertainer  was  all  this  while  only  the  butler,  who, 
in  his  master's  absence,  had  a  mind  to  cut  a  figure,  and  be  for 
a  while  the  gentleman  himself;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  he  talked 


A    DISCONTENTED    POLITICIAN  91 

politics  as  well  as  most  country  gentlemen  do.  But  nothing 
could  now  exceed  my  confusion  upon  seeing  the  gentleman  and 
his  lady  enter ;  nor  was  their  surprise,  at  finding  such  company 
and  good  cheer,  less  than  ours.  "Gentlemen,"  cried  the  real 
master  of  the  house  to  me  and  my  companion,  "  my  wife  and  I 
are  your  most  humble  servants ;  but  I  protest  this  is  so  unex- 
pected a  favour,  that  we  almost  sink  under  the  obligation." 
However  unexpected  our  company  might  be  to  them,  theirs,  I 
am  sure,  was  still  more  so  to  us,  and  I  was  struck  dumb  with 
the  apprehensions  of  my  own  absurdity,  when  whom  should  I 
next  see  enter  the  room  but  my  dear  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot, 
who  was  formerly  designed  to  be  married  to  my  son  George,  but 
whose  match  was  broken  off,  as  already  related.  As  soon  as 
she  saw  me,  she  flew  to  my  arms  with  the  utmost  joy.  "  My 
dear  sir,"  cried  she,  "to  what  happy  accident  is  it  that  we  owe 
so  unexpected  a  visit  ?  I  am  sure  my  uncle  and  aunt  will  be 
in  raptures  when  they  find  they  have  the  good  Dr.  Primrose  for 
their  guest."  Upon  hearing  my  name,  the  old  gentleman  and 
lady  very  politely  stepped  up,  and  welcomed  me  with  most 
cordial  hospitality.  Nor  could  they  forbear  smiling,  upon  being 
informed  of  the  nature  of  my  present  visit :  but  the  unfortunate 
butler,  whom  they  at  first  seemed  disposed  to  turn  away,  was 
at  my  intercession  forgiven. 

Mr.  Arnold  and  his  lady,  to  whom  the  house  belonged,  now 
insisted  upon  having  the  pleasure  of  my  stay  for  some  days ;  and 
as  their  niece,  my  charming  pupil,  whose  mind  in  some  measure 
had  been  formed  under  my  own  instructions,  joined  in  their  en- 
treaties, I  complied.0  That  night  I  was  shown  to  a  magnificent 
chamber ;  and  the  next  morning  early  Miss  Wilmot  desired  to 
walk  with  me  in  the  garden,  which  was  decorated  in  the  modern 
manner.  After  some  time  spent  in  pointing  out  the  beauties  of 
the  place,  she  inquired,  with  seeming  unconcern,  when  last  I 
had  heard  from  my  son  George.  —  "  Alas !  madam,"  cried  I, 
"  he  has  now  been  nearly  three  years  absent,  without  ever  writ- 


92  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

ing  to  his  friends  or  me.  Where  he  is  I  know  not ;  perhaps  I 
shall  never  see  him  or  happiness  more.  No,  my  dear  madam, 
we  shall  never  more  see  such  pleasing  hours  as  were  once  spent 
by  our  fireside  at  Wakefield.  My  little  family  are  now  dis- 
persing very  fast,  and  poverty  has  brought  not  only  want,  but 
infamy  upon  us."  The  good-natured  girl  let  fall  a  tear  at  this 
account ;  but  as  I  saw  her  possessed  of  too  much  sensibility,  I 
forbore  a  more  minute  detail  of  our  sufferings.  It  was,  how- 
ever, some  consolation  to  me  to  find  that  time  had  made  no 
alteration  in  her  affections,  and  that  she  had  rejected  several 
matches  that  had  been  made  her  since  our  leaving  her  part  of 
the  country.  She  led  me  round  all  the  extensive  improvements 
of  the  place,  pointing  to  the  several  walks  and  arbours,  and  at 
the  same  time  catching  from  every  object  a  hint  for  some  new 
question  relative  to  my  son.  In  this  manner  we  spent  the  fore- 
noon, till  the  bell  summoned  us  in  to  dinner,  where  we  found 
the  manager  of  the  strolling  company  that  I  mentioned  before, 
who  was  come  to  dispose  of  tickets  for  the  "Fair  Penitent,"0 
which  was  to  be  acted  that  evening  :  the  part  of  Horatio  by  a 
young  gentleman  who  had  never  appeared  on  any  stage.  He 
seemed  to  be  very  warm  in  the  praises  of  the  new  performer, 
and  averred  that  he  never  saw  any  who  bid  so  fair  for  excel- 
lence. Acting,  he  observed,  was  not  learned  in  a  day;  "but 
this  gentleman,"  continued  he,  "  seems  born  to  tread  the  stage. 
His  voice,  his  figure,  and  attitudes  are  all  admirable.  We  caught 
him  up  accidentally  in  our  journey  down."  This  account  in 
some  measure  excited  our  curiosity,  and,  at  the  entreaty  of  the 
ladies,  I  was  prevailed  upon  to  accompany  them  to  the  play- 
house, which  was  no  other  than  a  barn.  As  the  company  with 
which  I  went  was  incontestably  the  chief  of  the  place,  we  were 
received  with  the  greatest  respect,  and  placed  in  the  front  seat 
of  the  theatre,  where  we  sat  for  some  time  with  no  small  im- 
patience to  see  Horatio  make  his  appearance.  The  new  per- 
former advanced  at  last ;  and  let  parents  think  of  my  sensations 


A    DISCONTENTED    POLITICIAN  93 

by  their  own,  when  I  found  it  was  my  unfortunate  son  !  He 
was  going  to  begin ;  when,  turning  his  eyes  upon  the  audience, 
he  perceived  Miss  Wilmot  and  me,  and  stood  at  once  speechless 
and  immovable.0 

The  actors  behind  the  scene,  who  ascribed  this  pause  to  his 
natural  timidity,  attempted  to  encourage  him ;  but  instead  of 
going  on,  he  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  retired  off  the 
stage.  I  don't  know  what  were  my  feelings  on  this  occasion, 
for  they  succeeded  with  too  much  rapidity  for  description  j  but 
I  was  soon  awaked  from  this  disagreeable  reverie  by  Miss  Wil- 
mot, who,  pale  and  with  a  trembling  voice,  desired  me  to  con- 
duct her  back  to  her  uncle's.  When  we  got  home,  Mr.  Arnold, 
who  was  as  yet  a  stranger  to  our  extraordinary  behaviour,  being 
informed  that  the  new  performer  was  my  son,  sent  his  coach 
and  an  invitation  for  him ;  and  as  he  persisted  in  his  refusal  to 
appear  again  upon  the  stage,  the  players  put  another  in  his 
place,  and  we  soon  had  him  with  us.  Mr.  Arnold  gave  him 
the  kindest  reception,  and  I  received  him  with  my  usual  trans- 
port; for  I  could  never  counterfeit  false  resentment.  Miss 
Wilmot's  reception  was  mixed  with  seeming  neglect,  and  yet  I 
could  perceive  she  acted  a  studied  part.  The  tumult  in  her 
mind  seemed  not  yet  abated :  she  said  twenty  giddy  things 
that  looked  like  joy,  and  then  laughed  loud  at  her  own  want 
of  meaning.  At  intervals  she  would  try  a  sly  peep  at  the 
glass,  as  if  happy  in  the  consciousness  of  unresisted  beauty ; 
and  often  would  ask  questions,  without  giving  any  manner  of 
attention  to  the  answers. 


94  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 


CHAPTER   XX 

The   History   of  a   Philosophic    Vagabond,  pursuing  Novelty,  but 
losing  Content 

AFTER  we  had  supped,  Mrs.  Arnold  politely  offered  to  send 
a  couple  of  her  footmen  for  my  son's  baggage,  which  he  at  first 
seemed  to  decline ;  but  upon  her  pressing  the  request,  he  was 
obliged  to  inform  her,  that  a  stick  and  wallet  were  all  the 
movable  things  upon  this  earth  that  he  could  boast  of.  "  Why, 
ay,  my  son,"  cried  I,  "you  left  me  but  poor,  and  poor  I  find 
you  are  come  back  :  and  yet  I  make  no  doubt  you  have  seen  a 
great  deal  of  the  world."  —  "Yes,  sir,"  replied  my  son,  "but 
travelling  after  Fortune  is  not  the  way  to  secure  her;  and,  in- 
deed, of  late  I  have  desisted  from  the  pursuit."  —  "I  fancy, 
sir,"  cried  Mrs.  Arnold,  "that  the  account  of  your  adventures 
would  be  amusing;  the  first  part  of  them  I  have  often  heard 
from  my  niece ;  but  could  the  company  prevail  for  the  rest,  it 
would  be  an  additional  obligation."  —  "  Madam,"  replied  my 
son,  "  I  promise  you  the  pleasure  you  have  in  hearing  will  not  be 
half  so  great  as  my  vanity  in  repeating  them ;  yet  in  the  whole 
narrative  I  can  scarcely  promise  you  one  adventure,  as  my  ac- 
count is  rather  of  what  I  saw  than  what  I  did.  The  first  mis- 
fortune of  my  life,  which  you  all  know,  was  great ;  but  though 
it  distressed,  it  could  not  sink  me.  No  person  ever  had  a  better 
knack  at  hoping  than  I.°  The  less  kind  I  found  Fortune  at  one 
time,  the  more  I  expected  from  her  another ;  and  being  now  at  the 
bottom  of  her  wheel,  every  new  revolution  might  lift,  but  could 
not  depress  me.  I  proceeded,  therefore,  towards  London  in  a 
fine  morning,  no  way  uneasy  about  to-morrow,  but  cheerful  as 
the  birds  that  carolled  by  the  road ;  and  comforted  myself  with 
reflecting,  that  London  was  the  mart  where  abilities  of  every 
kind  were  sure  of  meeting  distinction  and  reward. 


A    PHILOSOPHIC    VAGABOND  95 

"  Upon  my  arrival  in  town,  sir,  my  first  care  was  to  deliver 
your  letter  of  recommendation  to  our  cousin,  who  was  himself 
in  little  better  circumstances  than  I.  My  first  scheme,  you 
know,  sir,  was  to  be  usher  at  an  academy ;  and  I  asked  his 
advice  on  the  affair.  Our  cousin  received  the  proposal  with  a 
true  sardonic  grin.  '  Ay,'  cried  he,  'this  is  indeed  a  very  pretty 
career  that  has  been  chalked  out  for  you.  I  have  been  an  usher 
at  a  boarding-school  myself;  and  may  I  die  by  an  anodyne  neck- 
lace,0 but  I  had  rather  be  an  under-turnkey  in  Newgate.  I  was 
up  early  and  late :  I  was  browbeat  by  the  master,  hated  for  my 
ugly  face  by  the  mistress,  worried  by  the  boys  within,  and  never 
permitted  to  stir  out  to  meet  civility  abroad.  But  are  you  sure 
you  are  fit  for  a  school  1  Let  me  examine  you  a  little.  Have 
you  been  bred  apprentice  to  the  business  V  — '  No.'  < — '  Then  you 
won't  do  for  a  school.  Can  you  dress  the  boys'  hair  ? '  — l  No.' 
—  '  Then  you  won't  do  for  a  school.  Have  you  had  the  small- 
pox 1 '  —  '  No.'  —  *  Then  you  won't  do  for  a  school.  Can  you 
lie  three  in  a  bed?' — 'No.' — 'Then  you  will  never  do  for 
a  school.  Have  you  got  a  good  stomach  V  —  '  Yes.'  —  '  Then 
you  will  by  no  means  do  for  a  school.  No,  sir  :  if  you  are  for 
a  genteel,  easy  profession,  bind  yourself  seven  years  an  appren- 
tice to  turn  a  cutler's  wheel :  but  avoid  a  school  by  any  means. 
Yet,  come,'  continued  he,  'I  see  you  are  a  lad  of  spirit  and 
some  learning ;  what  do  you  think  of  commencing  author,  like 
me  1  You  have  read  in  books,  no  doubt,  of  men  of  genius  starv- 
ing at  the  trade.  At  present  I'll  show  you  forty  very  dull  fel- 
lows about  town  that  live  by  it  in  opulence  ;  all  honest,  jog-trot 
men,  who  go  smoothly  and  dully,  and  write  history  and  politics, 
and  are  praised  —  men,  sir,  who  had  they  been  bred  cobblers, 
would  all  their  lives  have  only  mended  shoes,  but  never  made 
them.' 

"  Finding  that  there  was  no  great  degree  of  gentility  affixed 
to  the  character  of  an  usher,  I  resolved  to  accept  his  proposal ; 
and  having  the  highest  respect  for  literature,  hailed  the  antiqua 


96  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

mater  of  Grub  Street0  with  reverence.  I  thought  it  my  glory 
to  pursue  a  track  which  Dry  den  and  Otway  trod  before  me.0  I 
considered  the  goddess  of  this  region  as  the  parent  of  excellence ; 
and  however  an  intercourse  with  the  world  might  give  us  good 
sense,  the  poverty  she  granted  I  supposed  to  be  the  nurse  of 
genius !  Big  with  these  reflections,  I  sat  down,  and  rinding 
thai,  the  best  things  remained  to  be  said  on  the  wrong  side,  I 
resolved  to  write  a  book  that  should  be  wholly  new.  I  there- 
fore dressed  up  three  paradoxes  with  some  ingenuity.  They 
were  false,  indeed,  but  they  were  new.  The  jewels  of  truth 
have  been  so  often  imported  by  others,  that  nothing  was  left  for 
me  to  import  but  some  splendid  things  that  at  a  distance  looked 
every  bit  as  well.  Witness,  you  powers,  what  fancied  impor- 
tance sat  perched  upon  my  quill  while  I  was  writing !  The 
whole  learned  world,  I  made  no  doubt,  would  rise  to  oppose  my 
systems  :  but  then  I  was  prepared  to  oppose  the  whole  learned 
world.  Like  the  porcupine,  I  sat  self-collected,  with  a  quill 
pointed  against  every  opposer." 

"Well  said,  my  boy,"  cried  I;  "and  what  subject  did  you 
treat  upon  ?  I  hope  you  did  not  pass  over  the  importance  of 
monogamy.  But  I  interrupt :  go  on.  You  published  your 
paradoxes ;  well,  and  what  did  the  learned  world  say  to  your 
paradoxes  ? " 

"Sir,"  replied  my  son,  "the  learned  world  said  nothing  to 
my  paradoxes;  nothing  at  all,  sir.  Every  man  of  them  was 
employed  in  praising  his  friends  and  himself,  or  condemning  his 
enemies;  and  unfortunately,  as  I  had  neither,  I  suffered  the 
cruellest  mortification,  —  neglect. 

"  As  I  was  meditating  one  day  in  a  coffee-house  on  the  fate 
of  my  paradoxes,  a  little  man,  happening  to  enter  the  room, 
placed  himself  in  the  box  before  me,  and  after  some  preliminary 
discourse,  finding  me  to  be  a  scholar,  drew  out  a  bundle  of  pro- 
posals, begging  me  to  subscribe  to  a  new  edition  he  was  going 
to  give  to  the  world  of  Propertius,0  with  Notes.  This  demand 


A    PHILOSOPHIC    VAGABOND  97 

necessarily  produced  a  reply  that  I  had  no  money ;  and  that  con- 
cession led  him  to  inquire  into  the  nature  of  my  expectations. 
Finding  that  my  expectations  were  just  as  great  as  my  purse  — 
'  I  see,'  cried  he,  '  you  are  unacquainted  with  the  town  :  I'll 
teach  you  a  part  of  it.  Look  at  these  proposals,  —  upon  these 
very  proposals  I  have  subsisted  very  comfortably  for  twelve  years. 
The  moment  a  nobleman  returns  from  his  travels,  a  Creolian  arrives 
from  Jamaica,  or  a  dowager  from  her  country  seat,  I  strike  for 
a  subscription.  I  first  besiege  their  hearts  with  flattery,  and 
then  pour  in  my  proposals  at  the  breach.  If  they  subscribe 
readily  the  first  time,  I  renew  my  request  to  beg  a  dedication 
fee.0  If  they  let  me  have  that,  I  smite  them  once  more  for 
engraving  their  coat  of  arms  at  the  top.  Thus,'  continued  he, 
1 1  live  by  vanity,  and  laugh  at  it.  But,  between  ourselves,  I 
am  now  too  well  known  ;  I  should  be  glad  to  borrow  your  face 
a  bit.  A  nobleman  of  distinction  has  just  returned  from  Italy ; 
my  face  is  familiar  to  his  porter ;  but  if  you  bring  this  copy  of 
verses,  my  life  for  it  you  succeed,  and  we  divide  the  spoil.' " 

"  Bless  us,  George,"  cried  I,  "  and  is  this  the  employment  of 
poets  now  ?  Do  men  of  exalted  talents  thus  stoop  to  beggary  ? 
Can  they  so  far  disgrace  their  calling,  as  to  make  a  vile  traffic 
of  praise  for  bread  1 " 

"  Oh  no,  sir,"  returned  he,  "  a  true  poet  can  never  be  so  base ; 
for  wherever  there  is  genius,  there  is  pride.  The  creatures  I 
now  describe  are  only  beggars  in  rhyme.  The  real  poet,  as  he 
braves  every  hardship  for  fame,  so  he  is  equally  a  coward  to 
contempt ;  and  none  but  those  who  are  unworthy  protection 
condescend  to  solicit  it. 

"Having  a 'mind  too  proud  to  stoop  to  such  indignities,  and 
yet  a  fortune  too  humble  to  hazard  a  second  attempt  for  fame, 
I  was  now  obliged  to  take  a  middle  course,  and  write  for  bread. 
But  I  was  unqualified  for  a  profession  where  mere  industry 
alone  was  to  ensure  success.  I  could  not  suppress  my  lurking 
passion  for  applause ;  but  usually  consumed  that  time  in  efforts 


98  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

after  excellence  which  takes  up  but  little  room,  when  it  should 
have  been  more  advantageously  employed  in  the  diffusive  pro- 
ductions of  fruitful  mediocrity.  My  little  piece  would  therefore 
come  forth  in  the  midst  of  periodical  publications,  unnoticed 
and  unknown.  The  public  were  more  importantly  employed 
than  to  observe  the  easy  simplicity  of  my  style  or  the  harmony 
of  my  periods.  Sheet  after  sheet  was  thrown  off  to  oblivion. 
My  essays  were  buried  among  the  essays  upon  liberty,  Eastern 
tales,0  and  cures  for  the  bite  of  a  mad  dog;  while  Philautos, 
Philalethes,  Philelutheros,  and  Philanthropes0  all  wrote  better, 
because  they  wrote  faster  than  I. 

"  Now,  therefore,  I  began  to  associate  with  none  but  disap- 
pointed authors  like  myself,  who  praised,  deplored,  and  despised 
each  other.  The  satisfaction  we  found  in  every  celebrated 
writer's  attempts  was  inversely  as  their  merits.  I  found  that 
no  genius  in  another  could  please  me.  My  unfortunate  para- 
doxes had  entirely  dried  up  that  source  of  comfort.  I  could 
neither  read  nor  write  with  satisfaction ;  for  excellence  in  an- 
other was  my  aversion,  and  writing  was  my  trade. 

"  In  the  midst  of  these  gloomy  reflections,  as  I  was  one  day 
sitting  on  a  bench  in  St.  James's  Park,  a  young  gentleman  of 
distinction,  who  had  been  my  intimate  acquaintance  at  the  uni- 
versity, approached  me.  We  saluted  each  other  with  some 
hesitation ;  he  almost  ashamed  of  being  known  to  one  who 
made  so  shabby  an  appearance,  and  I  afraid  of  a  repulse.  But 
my  suspicions  soon  vanished;  for  Ned  Thornhill  was  at  the 
bottom  a  very  good-natured  fellow." 

"  What  did  you  say,  George  1 "  interrupted  I.  "  Thornhill  — 
was  not  that  his  name?  It  can  certainly  be  no  other  than  my 
landlord." —  "Bless  me,"  cried  Mrs.  Arnold,  "is  Mr.  Thornhill 
so  near  a  neighbour  of  yours  1  He  has  long  been  a  friend  in  our 
family,  and  we  expect  a  visit  from  him  shortly." 

"My  friend's  first  care,"  continued  my  son,  "was  to  alter 
my  appearance  by  a  very  fine  suit  of  his  own  clothes,  and  then 


A    PHILOSOPHIC    VAGABOND  99 

I  was  admitted  to  his  table,  upon  the  footing  of  half  friend, 
half  underling.  My  business  was  to  attend  him  at  auctions,  to 
put  him  in  spirits  when  he  sat  for  his  picture,  to  take  the  left 
hand  in  his  chariot  when  not  filled  by  another,  and  to  assist  at 
tattering  a  kip,°  as  the  phrase  was,  when  we  had  a  mind  for  a 
frolic.  Besides  this,  I  had  twenty  other  little  employments  in 
the  family.  I  was  to  do  many  small  things  without  bidding : 
to  carry  the  corkscrew ;  to  stand  godfather  to  all  the  butler's 
children  ;  to  sing  when  I  was  bid ;  to  be  never  out  of  humour ; 
always  to  be  humble,  and,  if  I  could,  to  be  very  happy. 

"  In  this  honourable  post,  however,  I  was  not  without  a 
rival.  A  captain  of  marines,  who  was  formed  for  the  place  by 
nature,  opposed  me  in  my  patron's  affections.  His  mother  had 
been  laundress  to  a  man  of  quality,  and  thus  he  early  acquired 
a  taste  for  pimping  and  pedigree.0  As  this  gentleman  made  it 
the  study  of  his  life  to  be  acquainted  with  lords,  though  he  was 
dismissed  from  several  for  his  stupidity,  yet  he  found  many  of 
them  who  were  as  dull  as  himself,  that  permitted  his  assiduities. 
As  flattery  was  his  trade,  he  practised  it  with  the  easiest  ad- 
dress imaginable  ;  but  it  came  awkward  and  stiff  from  me  ;  and 
as  every  day  my  patron's  desire  of  flattery  increased,  so  every 
hour,  being  better  acquainted  with  his  defects,  I  became  more 
unwilling  to  give  it.0  Thus,  I  was  once  more  fairly  going  to 
give  up  the  field  to  the  captain,  when  my  friend  found  occasion 
for  my  assistance.  This  was  nothing  less  than  to  fight  a  duel0 
for  him  with  a  gentleman  whose  sister  it  was  pretended  he  had 
used  ill.  I  readily  complied  with  his  request ;  and  though  I 
see  you  are  displeased  at  my  conduct,  yet,  as  it  was  a  debt  in- 
dispensably due  to  friendship,  I  could  not  refuse.  I  undertook 
the  affair,  disarmed  my  antagonist,  and  soon  after  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  finding  that  the  lady  was  only  a  woman  of  the  town,  and 
the  fellow  her  bully  and  a  sharper.  This  piece  of  service  was 
repaid  with  the  warmest  professions  of  gratitude ;  but,  as  my 
friend  was  to  leave  town  in  a  few  days,  he  knew  no  other 


100  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

method  of  serving  me  but  by  recommending  me  to  his  uncle, 
Sir  William  Thornhill,  and  another  nobleman  of  great  distinction, 
who  enjoyed  a  post  under  the  government.  When  he  was  gone, 
my  first  care  was  to  carry  his  recommendatory  letter  to  his 
uncle,  a  man  whose  character  for  every  virtue  was  universal,  yet 
just.  I  was  received  by  his  servants  with  the  most  hospitable 
smiles  ;  for  the  looks  of  the  domestic  ever  transmit  the  master's 
benevolence.  Being  shown  into  a  grand  apartment,  where  Sir 
William  soon  came  to  me,  I  delivered  my  message  and  letter, 
which  he  read,  and  after  pausing  some  minutes  — '  Pray,  sir,' 
cried  he,  l  inform  me  what  you  have  done  for  my  kinsman,  to 
deserve  this  warm  recommendation?  But  I  suppose,  sir,  I 
guess  your  merits  :  you  have  fought  for  him  ;  and  so  you  would 
expect  a  reward  from  me  for  being  the  instrument  of  his  vices. 
I  wish  —  sincerely  wish  that  my  present  refusal  may  be  some 
punishment  for  your  guilt ;  but  still  more,  that  it  may  be  some 
inducement  to  your  repentance.'  The  severity  of  this  rebuke  I 
bore  patiently,  because  I  knew  it  was  just.  My  whole  expecta- 
tions now,  therefore,  lay  in  my  letter  to  the  great  man.  As  the 
doors  of  the  nobility  are  almost  ever  beset  with  beggars,  all 
ready  to  thrust  in  some  sly  petition,  I  found  it  no  easy  matter 
to  gain  admittance.  However,  after  bribing  the  servants  with 
half  my  worldly  fortune,  I  was  at  last  shown  into  a  spacious 
apartment,  my  letter  being  previously  sent  up  for  his  lordship's 
inspection.  During  this  anxious  interval  I  had  full  time  to 
look  round  me.  Everything  was  grand  and  of  happy  contriv- 
ance; the  paintings,  the  furniture,  the  gildings,  petrified  me 
with  awe,  and  raised  my  idea  of  the  owner.  Ah,  thought  I  to 
myself,  how  very  great  must  the  possessor  of  all  these  things 
be,  who  carries  in  his  head  the  business  of  the  state,  and  whose 
house  displays  half  the  wealth  of  a  kingdom  !  Sure  his  genius 
must  be  unfathomable  !  During  these  awful  reflections  I  heard 
a  step  come  heavily  forward.  Ah,  this  is  the  great  man  him- 
self! No,  it  was  only  a  chambermaid.  Another  foot  was 


A    PHILOSOPHIC    VAGABOND  101 

heard  soon  after.  This  must  be  he.  No;  it  was  only  the 
great  man's  valet  de  chambre.  At  last  his  lordship  actually 
made  his  appearance.  'Are  you,'  cried  he,  'the  bearer  of  this 
here  letter?'  I  answered  with  a  bow.  '  I  learn  by  this,'  con- 
tinued he,  '  as  how  that ' But  just  at  that  instant  a  ser- 
vant delivered  him  a  card,  and  without  taking  farther  notice,  he 
went  out  of  the  room,  and  left  me  to  digest  my  own  happiness 
at  leisure.  I  saw  no  more  of  him,  till  told  by  a  footman  that 
his  lordship  was  going  to  his  coach  at  the  door.  Down  I  im- 
mediately followed,  and  joined  my  voice  to  that  of  three  or  four 
more,  who  came,  like  me,  to  petition  for  favours,  His  lordship, 
however,  went  too  fast  for  us,  and  was  gaining  his  chariot  door 
with  large  strides,  when  I  hallooed  out  to  know  if  I  was  to  have 
any  reply.  He  was  by  this  time  got  in,  and  muttered  an  an- 
swer, half  of  which  only  I  heard  ;  the  other  half  was  lost  in  the 
rattling  of  his  chariot  wheels.  I  stood  for  some  time  with 
my  neck  stretched  out,  in  the  posture  of  one  that  was  listening 
to  catch  the  glorious  sounds,  till,  looking  round  me,  I  found 
myself  alone  at  his  lordship's  gate. 

"My  patience,"  continued  my  son,  "was  now  quite  exhausted : 
stung  with  the  thousand  indignities  I  had  met  with,  I  was  will- 
ing to  cast  myself  away,  and  only  wanted  the  gulf  to  receive  me. 
I  regarded  myself  as  one  of  those  vile  things  that  Nature  de- 
signed should  be  thrown  by  into  her  lumber-room,  there  to  per- 
ish in  obscurity.  I  had  still,  however,  half-a-guinea  left,  and  of 
that  I  thought  Nature  herself  should  not  deprive  me ;  but  in 
order  to  be  sure  of  this,  I  was  resolved  to  go  instantly  and 
spend  it  while  I  had  it,  and  then  trust  to  occurrences  for  the 
rest.  As  I  was  going  along  with  this  resolution,  it  happened 
that  Mr.  Crispe's  office  seemed  invitingly  open  to  give  me  a 
welcome  reception.  In  this  office  Mr.  Crispe0  kindly  offers  all 
His  Majesty's  subjects  a  generous  promise  of  £30  a  year,  for 
which  promise  all  they  give  in  return  is  their  liberty  for  life, 
and  permission  to  let  him  transport  them  to  America  as  slaves. 


102  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

I  was  happy  at  finding  a  place  where  I  could  lose  my  fears  in 
desperation,  and  entered  this  cell  (for  it  had  the  appearance  of 
one)  with  the  devotion  of  a  monastic.  Here  I  found  a  number 
of  poor  creatures,  all  in  circumstances  like  myself,  expecting 
the  arrival  of  Mr.  Crispe,  presenting  a  true  epitome  of  English 
impatience.  Each  untractable  soul  at  variance  with  Fortune 
wreaked  her  injuries  on  their  own  hearts :  but  Mr.  Crispe  at 
last  came  down,  and  all  our  murmurs  were  hushed.  He  deigned 
to  regard  me  with  an  air  of  peculiar  approbation,  and  indeed  he 
was  the  first  man  who,  for  a  month  past,  had  talked  to  me  with 
smiles.  After  a  few  questions,  he  found  I  was  fit  for  every- 
thing in  the  world.  He  paused  a  while  upon  the  properest 
means  of  providing  for  me :  and  slapping  his  forehead  as  if  he 
had  found  it,  assured  me  that  there  was  at  that  time  an  embassy 
talked  of  from  the  synod0  of  Pennsylvania  to  the  Chickasaw 
Indians,  and  that  he  would  use  his  interest  to  get  me  made 
secretary.  I  knew  in  my  own  heart  that  the  fellow  lied,  and 
yet  his  promise  gave  me  pleasure,  there  was  something  so  mag- 
nificent in  the  sound.  I  fairly,  therefore,  divided  my  half- 
guinea,  one  half  of  which  went  to  be  added  to  his  thirty 
thousand  pounds,  and  with  the  other  half  I  resolved  to  go  to 
the  next  tavern,  to  be  there  more  happy  than  he. 

"As 'I  was  going  out  with  that  resolution,  I  was  met  at  the 
door  by  the  captain  of  a  ship  with  whom  I  had  formerly  some 
little  acquaintance,  and  he  agreed  to  be  my  companion  over  a 
bowl  of  punch.  As  I  never  chose  to  make  a  secret  of  my  cir- 
cumstances, he  assured  me  that  I  was  upon  the  very  point  of 
ruin,  in  listening  to  the  office-keeper's  promises;  for  that  he 
only  designed  to  sell  me  to  the  plantations.  '  But,'  continued 
he,  'I  fancy  you  might,  by  a  much  shorter  voyage,  be  very 
easily  put  into  a  genteel  way  of  bread.  Take  my  advice.  My 
ship  sails  to-morrow  for  Amsterdam  :  what  if  you  go  in  her  as 
a  passenger  ?  The  moment  you  land,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to 
teach  the  Dutchmen  English,  and  I'll  warrant  you'll  get  pupils 


A    PHILOSOPHIC    VAGABOND  103 

and  money  enough.  I  suppose  you  understand  English/  added 
he,  'by  this  time,  or  the  deuce  is  in  it.'  I  confidently  assured 
him  of  that ;  but  expressed  a  doubt  whether  the  Dutch  would 
be  willing  to  learn  English.  He  affirmed,  with  an  oath,  that 
they  were  fond  of  it  to  distraction ;  and  upon  that  affirmation 
I  agreed  with  his  proposal,  and  embarked  the  next  day  to  teach 
the  Dutch  English  in  Holland.  The  wind  was  fair,  our  voyage 
short ;  and  after  having  paid  my  passage  with  half  my  mov- 
ables, I  found  myself,  fallen  as  from  the  skies,  a  stranger  in 
one  of  the  principal  streets  of  Amsterdam.  In  this  situation 
I  was  unwilling  to  let  any  time  pass  unemployed  in  teaching. 
I  addressed  myself,  therefore,  to  two  or  three  of  those  I  met 
whose  appearance  seemed  most  promising ;  but  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  make  ourselves  mutually  understood.  It  was  not  till 
this  very  moment  I  recollected,  that  in  order  to  teach  the  Dutch- 
men English,  it  was  necessary  that  they  should  first  teach  me 
Dutch.  How  I  came  to  overlook  so  obvious  an  objection  is  to 
me  amazing  :  but  certain  it  is  I  overlooked  it. 

"  This  scheme  thus  blown  up,  I  had  some  thoughts  of  fairly 
shipping  back  to  England  again,  but  falling  into  company  with 
an  Irish  student,  who  was  returning  from  Louvain,  our  conver- 
sation turning  upon  topics  of  literature  (for,  by  the  way,  it  may 
be  observed  that  I  always  forgot  the  meanness  of  my  circum- 
stances when  I  could  converse  upon  such  subjects),  from  him  I 
learned  that  there  were  not  two  men  in  his  whole  university 
who  understood  Greek.  This  amazed  me.  I  instantly  resolved 
to  travel  to  Louvain,  and  there  live  by  teaching  Greek :  and  in 
this  design  I  was  heartened  by  my  brother  student,  who  threw 
out  some  hints  that  a  fortune  might  be  got  by  it. 

"I  set  boldly  forward  the  next  morning.  Every  day  lessened 
the  burden  of  my  movables,  like  JSsop  and  his  basket  of  bread ; 
for  I  paid  them  for  my  lodgings  to  the  Dutch,  as  I  travelled  on. 
When  I  came  to  Louvain,  I  was  resolved  not  to  go  sneaking  to 
the  lower  professors,  but  openly  tendered  my  talents  to  the 


104  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

Principal  himself.  I  went,  had  admittance,  and  offered  him 
my  service  as  a  master  of  the  Greek  language,  which  I  had  been 
told  was  a  desideratum  in  his  university.  The  Principal  seemed 
at  first  to  doubt  of  my  abilities ;  but  of  these  I  offered  to  con- 
vince him,  by  turning  a  part  of  any  Greek  author  he  should 
fix  upon  into  Latin.  Finding  me  perfectly  earnest  in  my  pro- 
posal, he  addressed  me  thus  :  '  You  see  me,  young  man  ;  I  never 
learned  Greek,  and  I  don't  find  that  I  have  ever  missed  it.  I 
have  had  a  Doctor's  cap  and  gown  without  Greek  ;  I  have  ten 
thousand  florins  a  year  without  Greek ;  I  eat  heartily  without 
Greek;  and,  in  short,'  continued  he,  'as  I  don't  know  Greek,  I 
do  not  believe  there  is  any  good  in  it.' 

"  I  was  now  too  far  from  home  to  think  of  returning ;  so  I 
resolved  to  go  forward.  I  had  some  knowledge  of  music,  with 
a  tolerable  voice,0  and  now  turned  what  was  my  amusement  into 
a  present  means  of  subsistence.  I  passed  among  the  harmless 
peasants  of  Flanders,  and  among  such  of  the  French  as  were 
poor  enough  to  be  very  merry ;  for  I  ever  found  them  sprightly 
in  proportion  to  their  wants.  Whenever  I  approached  a  peas- 
ant's house  towards  night-fall,  I  played  one  of  my  most  merry 
tunes,  and  that  procured  me  not  only  a  lodging,  but  subsistence 
for  the  next  day.  I  once  or  twice  attempted  to  play  for  people 
of  fashion,  but  they  always  thought  my  performance  odious,  and 
never  rewarded  me  even  with  a  trifle.  This  was  to  me  the  more 
extraordinary,  as,  whenever  I  used,  in  better  days,  to  play  for 
company,  when  playing  was  my  amusement,  my  music  never 
failed  to  throw  them  into  raptures,  and  the  ladies  especially ; 
but  as  it  was  now  my  only  means,  it  was  received  with  con- 
tempt—  a  proof  how  ready  the  world  is  to  underrate  those 
talents  by  which  a  man  is  supported. 

"In  this  manner  I  proceeded  to  Paris,  with  no  design  but 
just  to  look  about  me,  and  then  to  go  forward.  The  people  of 
Paris  are  much  fonder  of  strangers  that  have  money,  than  those 
that  have  wit.  As  I  could  not  boast  much  of  either,  I  was  no 


A    PHILOSOPHIC    VAGABOND  105 

great  favourite.  After  walking  about  the  town  four  or  five 
days,  and  seeing  the  outsides  of  the  best  houses,  I  was  prepar- 
ing to  leave  this  retreat  of  venal  hospitality,  when  passing 
through  one  of  the  principal  streets,  whom  should  I  meet  but 
our  cousin,  to  whom  you  first  recommended  me.  This  meeting 
was  very  agreeable  to  me,  and  I  believe  not  displeasing  to  him. 
He  inquired  into  the  nature  of  my  journey  to  Paris,  and  in- 
formed me  of  his  own  business  there,  which  was  to  collect 
pictures,  medals,  intaglios,  and  antiques  of  all  kinds,  for  a 
gentleman  in  London  who  had  just  stepped  into  taste  and  a 
large  fortune.  I  was  the  more  surprised  at  seeing  our  cousin 
pitched  upon  for  this  office,  as  he  himself  had  often  assured  me 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  matter.  Upon  asking  how  he  had  been 
taught  the  art  of  a  cognoscente0  so  very  suddenly,  he  assured 
me  that  nothing  was  more  easy.  The  whole  secret  consisted  in 
a  strict  adherence  to  two  rules  :  the  one,  always  to  observe  that 
the  picture  might  have  been  better  if  the  painter  had  taken 
more  pains ;  and  the  other,  to  praise  the  works  of  Pietro  Peru- 
gino.  'But,5  says  he,  'as  I  once  taught  you  how  to  be  an 
author  in  London,  I'll  now  undertake  to  instruct  you  in  the  art 
of  picture-buying  at  Paris.7 

"  With  this  proposal  I  very  readily  closed,  as  it  was  living, 
and  now  all  my  ambition  was  to  live.  I  went  therefore  to  his 
lodgings,  improved  my  dress  by  his  assistance ;  and,  after  some 
time,  accompanied  him  to  auctions  of  pictures,  where  the  Eng- 
lish gentry  were  expected  to  be  purchasers.  I  was  not  a  little 
surprised  at  his  intimacy  with  people  of  the  best  of  fashion,  who 
referred  themselves  to  his  judgment  upon  every  picture  or  medal, 
as  to  an  unerring  standard  of  taste.  He  made  very  good  use  of 
my  assistance  upon  these  occasions ;  for,  when  asked  his  opin- 
ion, he  would  gravely  take  me  aside  and  ask  mine,  shrug,  look 
wise,  return,  and  assure  the  company  that  he  could  give  no  opin- 
ion upon  an  affair  of  so  much  importance.  Yet  there  was  some- 
times an  occasion  for  a  more  supported  assurance.  I  remember 


106  THE     VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

to  have  seen  him,  after  giving  his  opinion  that  the  colouring  of 
a  picture  was  not  mellow  enough,  very  deliberately  take  a  brush 
with  brown  varnish,  that  was  accidentally  lying  by,  and  rub  it 
over  the  piece  with  great  composure  before  all  the  company, 
and  then  ask  if  he  had  not  improved  the  tints. 

"  When  he  had  finished  his  commission  in  Paris,  he  left  me 
strongly  recommended  to  several  men  of  distinction,  as  a  person 
very  proper  for  a  travelling  tutor ;  and  after  some  time,  I  was 
employed  in  that  capacity  by  a  gentleman  who  brought  his 
ward  to  Paris,  in  order  to  set  him  forward  on  his  tour  through 
Europe.  I  was  to  be  the  young  gentleman's  governor ;  but  with 
a  proviso,  that  he  should  always  be  permitted  to  govern  himself. 
My  pupil,  in  fact,  understood  the  art  of  guiding  in  money  con- 
cerns much  better  than  I.  He  was  heir  to  a  fortune  of  about 
two  hundred  thousand  pounds,  left  him  by  an  uncle  in  the  West 
Indies ;  and  his  guardians,  to  qualify  him  for  the  management 
of  it,  had  bound  him  apprentice  to  an  attorney.  Thus  avarice 
was  his  prevailing  passion :  all  his  questions  on  the  road  were, 
how  money  might  be  saved;  which  was  the  least  expensive 
course  of  travel ;  whether  anything  could  be  bought  that  would 
turn  to  account  when  disposed  of  again  in  London  ?  Such  curi- 
osities on  the  way  as  could  be  seen  for  nothing,  he  was  ready 
enough  to  look  at ;  but  if  the  sight  of  them  was  to  be  paid  for, 
he  usually  asserted  that  he  had  been  told  they  were  not  worth 
seeing.  He  never  paid  a  bill  that  he  would  not  observe  how 
amazingly  expensive  travelling  was  !  and  all  this  though  he  was 
not  yet  twenty-one.  When  arrived  at  Leghorn,  as  we  took  a 
walk  to  look  at  the  port  and  shipping,  he  inquired  the  expense 
of  the  passage  by  sea  home  to  England.  This  he  was  informed 
was  but  a  trifle  compared  to  his  returning  by  land ;  he  was 
therefore  unable  to  withstand  the  temptation ;  so  paying  me 
the  small  part  of  my  salary  that  was  due,  he  took  leave,  and 
embarked  with  only  one  attendant  for  London. 

"  I  now  therefore  was  left  once  more  upon  the  world  at  large ; 


A    PHILOSOPHIC    VAGABOND  107 

but  then,  it  was  a  thing  I  was  used  to.  However,  my  skill  in 
music  could  avail  me  nothing  in  a  country  where  every  peasant 
was  a  better  musician  than  I :  but  by  this  time  I  had  acquired 
another  talent,  which  answered  my  purpose  as  well,  and  this 
was  a  skill  in  disputation.  In  all  the  foreign  universities  and 
convents  there  are,  upon  certain  days,  philosophical  theses  main- 
tained against  every  adventitious  disputant ;  for  which,  if  the 
champion  opposes  with  any  dexterity,  he  can  claim  a  gratuity 
in  money,  a  dinner,  and  a  bed  for  one  night.  In  this  manner, 
therefore,  I  fought  my  way  towards  England ;  walked  along 
from  city  to  city ;  examined  mankind  more  nearly ;  and,  if  I 
may  so  express  it,  saw  both  sides  of  the  picture.  My  remarks, 
however,  are  but  few  :  I  found  that  monarchy  was  the  best 
government  for  the  poor  to  live  in,  and  commonwealths  for  the 
rich.  I  found  that  riches  in  general  were  in  every  country 
another  name  for  freedom  ;  and  that  no  man  is  so  fond  of  liberty 
himself,  as  not  to  be  desirous  of  subjecting  the  will  of  some  in- 
dividuals in  society  to  his  own. 

"  Upon  my  arrival  in  England,  I  resolved  to  pay  my  respects 
first  to  you,  and  then  to  enlist  as  a  volunteer  in  the  first  expe- 
dition that  was  going  forward ;  but  on  my  journey  down,  my 
resolutions  were  changed  by  meeting  an  old  acquaintance,  who 
I  found  belonged  to  a  company  of  comedians  that  were  going  to 
make  a  summer  campaign  in  the  country.  The  company  seemed 
not  much  to  disapprove  of  me  for  an  associate.  They  all,  how- 
ever, apprised  me  of  the  importance  of  the  task  at  which  I 
aimed ;  that  the  public  was  a  many-headed  monster,  and  that 
only  such  as  had  very  good  heads  could  please  it :  that  acting 
was  not  to  be  learned  in  a  day ;  and  that  without  some  tradi- 
tional shrugs,  which  had  been  on  the  stage,  and  only  on  the  stage, 
these  hundred  years,  I  could  never  pretend  to  please.  The  next 
difficulty  was  in  fitting  me  with  parts,  as  almost  every  character 
was  in  keeping.  I  was  driven  for  some  time  from  one  character 
to  another,  till  at  last  Horatio  was  fixed  upon,  which  the  presence 
of  the  present  company  has  happily  hindered  me  from  acting." 


108  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 


CHAPTER  XXI 

The  short  Continuance  of  Friendship  amongst  the  Vicious,  which  is 
coeval  only  with  mutual  Satisfaction 

MY  son's  account  was  too  long  to  be  delivered  at  once ;  the 
first  part  of  it  was  begun  that  night,  and  he  was  concluding  the 
rest  after  dinner  the  next  day,  when  the  appearance  of  Mr. 
ThornhilFs  equipage  at  the  door  seemed  to  make  a  pause  in 
the  general  satisfaction.  The  butler,  who  was  now  become  my 
friend  in  the  family,  informed  me,  with  a  whisper,  that  the 
Squire  had  already  made  some  overtures  to  Miss  Wilmot,  and 
that  her  aunt  and  uncle  seemed  highly  to  approve  the  match. 
Upon  Mr.  Thornh ill's  entering,  he  seemed,  at  seeing  my  son  and 
me,  to  start  back ;  but  I  readily  imputed  that  to  surprise,  and 
not  displeasure.  However,  upon  our  advancing  to  salute  him, 
he  returned  our  greeting  with  the  most  apparent  candour  ;  and 
after  a  short  time  his  presence  served  only  to  increase  the  general 
good  humour. 

After  tea  he  called  me  aside  to  inquire  after  my  daughter ; 
but  upon  my  informing  him  that  my  inquiry  was  unsuccessful, 
he  seemed  greatly  surprised;  adding  that  he  had  been  since 
frequently  at  my  house  in  order  to  comfort  the  rest  of  my 
family,  whom  he  left  perfectly  well.  He  then  asked  if  I  com- 
municated her  misfortune  to  Miss  Wilmot  or  my  son  ;  and  upon 
my  replying  that  I  had  not  told  them  as  yet,  he  greatly  approved 
my  prudence  and  precaution,  desiring  me  by  all  means  to  keep 
it  a  secret:  "For  at  best,"  cried  he,  "it  is  but  divulging  one's 
own  infamy ;  and  perhaps  Miss  Livy  may  not  be  so  guilty  as 
we  alTimagine."  We  were  here  interrupted  by  a  servant  who 
came  to  ask  the  Squire  in,  to  stand  up  at  country-dances  : 
so  that  he  left  me  quite  pleased  with  the  interest  he  seemed  to 


FRIENDSHIP    AND    VICE  109 

take  in  my  concerns.  His  addresses,  however,  to  Miss  Wilmot 
were  too  obvious  to  be  mistaken  :  and  yet,  she  seemed  not  per- 
fectly pleased,  but  bore  them  rather  in  compliance  to  the  will 
of  her  aunt  than  from  real  inclination.  I  had  even  the  satis- 
faction to  see  her  lavish  some  kind  looks  upon  my  unfortunate 
son,  which  the  other  could  neither  extort  by  his  fortune  nor 
assiduity.  Mr.  Thornhill's  seeming  composure,  however,  not  a 
little  surprised  me :  we  had  now  continued  here  a  week  at  the 
pressing  instances  of  Mr.  Arnold ;  but  each  day  the  more  ten- 
derness Miss  Wilmot  showed  my  son,  Mr.  Thornhill's  friendship 
seemed  proportionably  to  increase  for  him. 

He  had  formerly  made  us  the  most  kind  assurances  of  using 
his  interest  to  serve  the  family ;  but  now  his  generosity  was  not 
confined  to  promises  alone.  The  morning  I  designed  for  my 
departure,  Mr.  Thornhill  came  to  me  with  looks  of  real  pleasure, 
to  inform  me  of  a  piece  of  service  he  had  done  for  his  friend 
George.  This  was  nothing  less  than  his  having  procured  him 
an  ensign's  commission  in  one  of  the  regiments  that  was  going 
to  the  West  Indies,  for  which  he  had  promised  but  one  hundred 
pounds,  his  interest  having  been  sufficient  to  get  an  abatement 
of  the  other  two.  "As  for  this  trifling  piece  of  service,"  con- 
tinued the  young  gentleman,  "  I  desire  no  other  reward  but  the 
pleasure  of  having  served  my  friend ;  and  as  for  the  hundred 
pounds  to  be  paid,  if  you  are  unable  to  raise  it  yourselves,  I  will 
advance  it,  and  you  shall  repay  me  at  your  leisure,"  This  was 
a  favour  we  wanted  words  to  express  our  sense  of:  I  readily, 
therefore,  gave  my  bond  for  the  money,  and  testified  as  much 
gratitude  as  if  I  never  intended  to  pay. 

George  was  to  depart  for  town  the  next  day,  to  secure  his 
commission,  in  pursuance  of  his  generous  patron's  directions,  who 
judged  it  highly  expedient  to  use  despatch,  lest  in  the  meantime 
another  should  step  in  with  more  advantageous  proposals.  The 
next  morning,  therefore,  our  young  soldier  was  early  prepared 
for  his  departure,  and  seemed  the  only  person  among  us  that 


110  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

was  not  affected  by  it.  Neither  the  fatigues  and  dangers  he  was 
going  to  encounter,  nor  the  friends  and  mistress  —  for  Miss  Wil- 
mot  actually  loved  him  —  he  was  leaving  behind,  any  way  damped 
his  spirits.  After  he  had  taken  leave  of  the  rest  of  the  company, 
I  gave  him  all  I  had,  my  blessing.  "And  now,  my  boy,"  cried 
I,  "  thou  art  going  to  fight  for  thy  country :  remember  how  thy 
brave  grandfather  fought  for  his  sacred  king,  when  loyalty  among 
Britons  was  a  virtue.  Go,  my  boy,  and  imitate  him  in  all  but 
his  misfortunes,  if  it  was  a  misfortune  to  die  with  Lord  Falk- 
land.0 Go,  my  boy,  and  if  you  fall,  though  distant,  exposed, 
and  unwept  by  those  that  love  you,  the  most  precious  tears  are 
those  with  which  Heaven  bedews  the  unburied  head  of  a  soldier." 

The  next  morning  I  took  leave  of  the  good  family,  that  had 
been  kind  enough  to  entertain  me  so  long,  not  without  several 
expressions  of  gratitude  to  Mr.  Thornhill  for  his  late  bounty. 
I  left  them  in  the  enjoyment  of  all  that  happiness  which  afflu- 
ence and  good  breeding  procure,  and  returned  towards  home, 
despairing  of  ever  finding  my  daughter  more,  but  sending  a  sigh 
to  Heaven  to  spare  and  to  forgive  her. 

I  was  now  come  within  about  twenty  miles  of  home,  having 
hired  an  horse  to  carry  me,  as  I  was  yet  but  weak,  and  com- 
forted myself  with  the  hopes  of  soon  seeing  all  I  held  dearest 
upon  earth.  But  the  night  coming  on,  I  put  up  at  a  little  pub- 
lic-house by  the  road-side,  and  asked  for  the  landlord's  company 
over  a  pint  of  wine.  We  sat  beside  his  kitchen  fire,  which  was 
the  best  room  in  the  house,  and  chatted  on  politics  and  the  news 
of  the  country.  We  happened,  among  other  topics,  to  talk  of 
young  Squire  Thornhill,  who,  the  host  assured  me,  was  hated  as 
much  as  his  uncle  Sir  William,  who  sometimes  came  down  to 
the  country,  was  loved.  He  went  on  to  observe,  that  he  made 
it  his  whole  study  to  betray  the  daughters  of  such  as  received 
him  to  their  houses,  and,  after  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks'  pos- 
session, turned  them  out  unrewarded  and  abandoned  to  the 
world.  As  we  continued  our  discourse  in  this  manner,  his  wife, 


FRIENDSHIP    AND     VICE  111 

who  had  been  out  to  get  change,  returned,  and  perceiving  that 
her  husband  was  enjoying  a  pleasure  in  which  she  was  not  a 
sharer,  she  asked  him,  in  an  angry  tone,  what  he  did  there  ?  to 
which  he  only  replied,  in  an  ironical  way,  by  drinking  her  health. 
"Mr.  Symonds,"  cried  she,  "you  use  me  very  ill,  and  I'll  bear 
it  no  longer.  Here  three  parts  of  the  business  is  left  for  me 
to  do,  and  the  fourth  left  unfinished,  while  you  do  nothing  but 
soak  with  the  guests  all  day  long;  whereas,  if  a  spoonful  of 
liquor  were  to  cure  me  of  a  fever,  I  never  touch  a  drop."  I 
now  found  what  she  would  be  at,  and  immediately  poured  her 
out  a  glass,  which  she  received  with  a  curtsey ;  and  drinking 
towards  my  good  health,  "  Sir,"  resumed  she,  "  it  is  not  so  much 
for  the  value  of  the  liquor  I  am  angry,  but  one  cannot  help  it 
when  the  house  is  going  out  of  the  windows.  If  the  customers 
or  guests  are  to  be  dunned,  all  the  burden  lies  upon  my  back  : 
he'd  as  lief  eat  that  glass  as  budge  after  them  himself.  There, 
now,  above  stairs,  we  have  a  young  woman  who  has  come  to 
take  up  her  lodging  here,  and  I  don't  believe  she  has  got  any 
money,  by  her  over-civility.  I  am  certain  she  is  very  slow  of 
payment,  and  I  wish  she  were  put  in  mind  of  it."  —  "What 
signifies  minding  her?"  cried  the  host;  "if  she  be  slow,  she  is 
sure." —  "I  don't  know  that,"  replied  the  wife  ;  "but  I  know 
that  I  am  sure  she  has  been  here  a  fortnight,  and  we  have  not 
yet  seen  the  cross  of  her  money."0 —  "I  suppose,  my  dear," 
cried  he,  "we  shall  have  it  all  in  a  lump."  —  "In  a  lump!" 
cried  the  other :  "I  hope  we  may  get  it  any  way ;  and  that  I 
am  resolved  we  will  this  very  night,  or  out  she  tramps,  bag  and 
baggage."  —  "Consider,  my  dear,"  cried  the  husband,  "she  is 
a  gentlewoman,  and  deserves  more  respect."  —  "As  for  the 
matter  of  that,"  returned  the  hostess,  "gentle  or  simple,  out  - 
she  shall  pack  with  a  sussarara.0  Gentry  may  be  good  things 
where  they  take ;  but,  for  my  part,  I  never  saw  much  good  of 
them  at  the  Sign  of  the  Harrow."  Thus  saying,  she  ran  up  a 
narrow  flight  of  stairs  that  went  from  the  kitchen  to  a  room 


112  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

overhead ;  and  I  soon  perceived,  by  the  loudness  of  her  voice, 
and  the  bitterness  of  her  reproaches,  that  no  money  was  to  be 
had  from  her  lodger.  I  could  hear  her  remonstrances  very  dis- 
tinctly :  "  Out,  I  say ;  pack  out  this  moment !  tramp,  thou 
infamous  strumpet,  or  I'll  give  thee  a  mark  thou  won't  be  the 
better  for  this  three  months.  What !  you  trumpery,  to  come 
and  take  up  an  honest  house  without  cross  or  coin  to  bless  your- 
self with  !  Come  along,  I  say!"  —  "Oh,  dear  madam,"  cried 
the  stranger,  "pity  me  —  pity  a  poor  abandoned  creature,  for 
one  night,  and  death  will  soon  do  the  rest !  "  I  instantly  knew 
the  voice  of  my  poor  ruined  child  Olivia.  I  flew  to  her  rescue, 
while  the  woman  was  dragging  her  along  by  her  hair,  and  I 
caught  the  dear  forlorn  wretch  in  my  arms.  "  Welcome,  any 
way  welcome,  my  dearest  lost  one  —  my  treasure  —  to  your 
poor  old  father's  bosom  !  Though  the  vicious  forsake  thee, 
there  is  yet  one  in  the  world  that  will  never  forsake  thee ; 
though  thou  hadst  ten  thousand  crimes  to  answer  for,  he  will 
forget  them  all !  "  —  "  Oh,  my  own  dear  —  "  for  minutes  she 
could  say  no  more  — "  my  own  dearest  good  papa !  Could 
angels  be  kinder  1  How  do  I  deserve  so  much  ?  The  villain, 
I  hate  him  and  myself,  to  be  a  reproach  to  so  much  goodness  ! 
You  can't  forgive  me,  I  know  you  cannot."  —  "  Yes,  my  child, 
from  my  heart  I  do  forgive  thee :  only  repent,  and  we  both  shall 
yet  be  happy.  We  shall  see  many  pleasant  days  yet,  my  Olivia." 
—  "  Ah  !t  never,  sir,  never.  The  rest  of  my  wretched  life  must 
be  infamy  abroad,  and  shame  at  home.  But,  alas  !  papa,  you 
look  much  paler  than  you  used  to  do.  Could  such  a  thing  as  I 
am  give  you  so  much  uneasiness  1  Surely  you  have  too  much 
wisdom  to  take  the  miseries  of  my  guilt  upon  yourself  ."- 
"Our  wisdom,  young  woman,"  replied  I.  —  "Ah,  why  so  cold 
a  name,  papa  ? "  cried  she.  "  This  is  the  first  time  you  ever 
called  me  by  so  cold  a  name."  —  "I  ask  pardon,  my  darling," 
returned  I ;  "  but  I  was  going  to  observe,  that  wisdom  makes 
but  a  slow  defence  against  trouble,  though  at  last  a  sure  one." 


FRIENDSHIP    AND    VICE  113 

The  landlady  now  returned,  to  know  if  we  did  not  choose  a 
more  genteel  apartment ;  to  which  assenting,  we  were  shown  a 
room  where  we  could  converse  more  freely.  After  we  had 
talked  ourselves  into  some  degree  of  tranquillity,  I  could  not 
avoid  desiring  some  account  of  the  gradations  that  led  her  to 
her  present  wretched  situation.  "  That  villain,  sir,"  said  she, 
"  from  the  first  day  of  our  meeting,  made  me  honourable,  though 
private  proposals." 

"Villain,  indeed!"  cried  I:  "and  yet  it  in  some  measure 
surprises  me  how  a  person  of  Mr.  BurchelPs  good  sense  and 
seeming  honour  could  be  guilty  of  such  deliberate  baseness, 
and  thus  step  into  a  family  to  undo  it." 

"My  dear  papa,"  returned  my  daughter,  "you  labour  under 
a  strange  mistake.  Mr.  Burchell  never  attempted  to  deceive 
me :  instead  of  that,  he  took  every  opportunity  of  privately 
admonishing  me  against  the  artifices  of  Mr.  Thornhill,  who,  I 
now  find,  was  even  worse  than  he  represented  him."  —  "Mr. 
Thornhill,"  interrupted  I ;  " can  it  be ?"  —  "  Yes,  sir,"  returned 
she,  "  it  was  Mr.  Thornhill  who  seduced  me ;  who  employed  the 
two  ladies,  as  he  called  them,  but  who  in  fact  were  abandoned 
women  of  the  town,  without  breeding  or  pity,  to  decoy  us  up 
to  London.  Their  artifices,  you  may  remember,  would  have  cer- 
tainly succeeded,  but  for  Mr.  Burchell's  letter,  who  directed  those 
reproaches  at  them  which  we  all  applied  to  ourselves.  How  he 
came  to  have  so  much  influence  as  to  defeat  their  intentions  still 
remains  a  secret  to  me;  but  I  am  convinced  he  was  ever  our 
warmest,  sincerest  friend." 

"  You  amaze  me,  my  dear,"  cried  I ;  "  but  now  I  find  my 
first  suspicions  of  Mr.  Thornhill's  baseness  were  too  well 
grounded.  But  he  can  triumph  in  security;  for  he  is  rich, 
and  we  are  poor.  But  tell  me,  my  child,  sure  it  was  no  small 
temptation  that  could  thus  obliterate  all  the  impressions  of  such 
an  education  and  so  virtuous  a  disposition  as  thine  ? " 

"Indeed,  sir,"  replied  she,  "he  owes  all  his  triumph  to  the 


114  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

desire  I  had  of  making  him,  and  not  myself,  happy.  I  knew 
that  the  ceremony  of  our  marriage,  which  was  privately  per- 
formed by  a  popish  priest,0  was  no  way  binding,  and  that  I  had 
nothing  to  trust  to  but  his  honour."  —  "What !  "  interrupted  I, 
"and  were  you  indeed  married  by  a  priest  in  orders'?"  —  "In- 
deed, sir,  we  were,"  replied  she,  "though  we  were  both  sworn  to 
conceal  his  name."  —  "  Why,  then,  my  child,  come  to  my  arms 
again ;  and  now  you  are  a  thousand  times  more  welcome  than 
before ;  for  you  are  now  his  wife  to  all  intents  and  purposes ; 
nor  can  all  the  laws  of  man,  though  written  upon  tables  of 
adamant,  lessen  the  force  of  that  sacred  connection." 

"Alas!  papa,"  replied  she,  "you  are  but  little  acquainted 
with  his  villanies :  he  has  been  married  already  by  the  same 
priest  to  six  or  eight  wives  more,  whom,  like  me,  he  has 
deceived  and  abandoned." 

"  Has  he  so  1 "  cried  I ;  "  then  we  must  hang  the  priest,  and 
you  shall  inform  against  him  to-morrow."  — "  But,  sir,"  re- 
turned she,  "  will  that  be  right,  when  I  am  sworn  to  secrecy  ? " 
—  "My  dear,"  I  replied,  "if  you  have  made  such  a  promise,  I 
cannot,  nor  will  I  tempt  you  to  break  it.  Even  though  it  may 
benefit  the  public,  you  must  not  inform  against  him.  In  all 
human  institutions  a  smaller  evil  is  allowed  to  procure  a  greater 
good ;  as,  in  politics,  a  province  may  be  given  away  to  secure  a 
kingdom ;  in  medicine,  a  limb  may  be  lopped  off  to  preserve  the 
body  :  but  in  religion  the  law  is  written,  and  inflexible,  never  to 
do  evil.  And  this  law,  my  child,  is  right ;  for  otherwise,  if  we 
commit  a  smaller  evil  to  procure  a  greater  good,  certain  guilt 
would  be  thus  incurred  in  expectation  of  contingent  advantage. 
And  though  the  advantage  should  certainly  follow,  yet  the  in- 
terval between  commission  and  advantage,  which  is  allowed  to 
be  guilty,  may  be  that  in  which  we  are  called  away  to  answer 
for  the  things  we  have  done,  and  the  volume  of  human  actions 
is  closed  for  ever.  But  I  interrupt  you,  my  dear ;  go  on." 

"  The  very  next  morning,"  continued  she,  "  I  found  what 


FRIENDSHIP    AND    VICE  115 

little  expectation  I  was  to  have  from  his  sincerity.  That  very 
morning  he  introduced  me  to  two  unhappy  women  more,  whom, 
like  me,  he  had  deceived,  but  who  lived  in  contented  prostitu- 
tion. I  loved  him  too  tenderly  to  bear  such  rivals  in  his  affec- 
tions, and  strove  to  forget  my  infamy  in  a  tumult  of  pleasures. 
With  this  view  I  danced,  dressed,  and  talked;  but  still  was 
unhappy.  The  gentlemen  who  visited  there  told  me  every  mo- 
ment of  the  power  of  my  charms,  and  this  only  contributed  to 
increase  my  melancholy,  as  I  had  thrown  all  their  power  quite 
away.  Thus  each  day  I  grew  more  pensive,  and  he  more  inso- 
lent, till  at  last  the  monster  had  the  assurance  to  offer  me  to  a 
young  baronet  of  his  acquaintance.  Need  I  describe,  sir,  how 
his  ingratitude  stung  me?  My  answer  to  this  proposal  was 
almost  madness.  I  desired  to  part.  As  I  was  going,  he  offered 
me  a  purse ;  but  I  flung  it  at  him  with  indignation,  and  burst 
from  him  in  a  rage,  that  for  a  while  kept  me  insensible  of  the 
miseries  of  my  situation.  But  I  soon  looked  round  me,  and  saw 
myself  a  vile,  abject,  guilty  thing,  without  one  friend  in  the 
world  to  apply  to.  Just  in  that  interval,  a  stage  coach  happen- 
ing to  pass  by,  I  took  a  place,  it  being  my  only  aim  to  be  driven 
at  a  distance  from  a  wretch  I  despised  and  detested.  I  was  set 
down  here,  where,  since  my  arrival,  my  own  anxiety  and  this 
woman's  unkindness  have  been  my  only  companions.  The  hours 
of  pleasure  that  I  have  passed  with  my  mamma  and  sister  now 
grow  painful  to  me.  Their  sorrows  are  much  ;  but  mine  are 
greater  than  theirs,  for  mine  are  fixed  with  guilt  and  infamy." 

"Have  patience,  my  child,"  cried  I,  "and  I  hope  things  will 
yet  be  better.  Take  some  repose  to-night,  and  to-morrow  I'll 
carry  you  home  to  your  mother  and  the  rest  of  the  family,  from 
whom  you  will  receive  a  kind  reception.  Poor  woman  !  this 
has  gone  to  her  heart ;  but  she  loves  you  still,  Olivia,  and  will 
forget  it." 


116  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

CHAPTER   XXII 

Offences  are  easily  pardoned  where  there  is  Love  at  bottom 

THE  next  morning  I  took  my  daughter  behind  me,  and  set 
out  on  my  return  home.  As  we  travelled  along,  I  strove,  by 
every  persuasion,  to  calm  her  sorrows  and  fears,  and  to  arm  her 
with  resolution  to  bear  the  presence  of  her  offended  mother.  I 
took  every  opportunity,  from  the  prospect  of  a  fine  country 
through  which  we  passed,  to  observe  how  much  kinder  Heaven 
was  to  us  than  we  to  each  other ;  and  that  the  misfortunes  of 
Nature's  making  were  very  few.  I  assured  her,  that  she  should 
never  perceive  any  change  in  my  affections,  and  that,  during 
my  life,  which  yet  might  be  long,  she  might  depend  upon  a 
guardian  and  an  instructor.  I  armed  her  against  the  censure 
of  the  world,  showed  her  that  books  were  sweet  unreproaching 
companions  to  the  miserable,  and  that,  if  they  could  not  bring 
us  to  enjoy  life,  they  would  at  least  teach  us  to  endure  it. 

The  hired  horse  that  we  rode  was  to  be  put  up  that  night  at 
an  inn  by  the  way,  within  about  five  miles  from  my  house ;  and 
as  I  was  willing  to  prepare  my  family  for  my  daughter's  recep- 
tion, I  determined  to  leave  her  that  night  at  the  inn,  and  to 
return  for  her,  accompanied  by  my  daughter  Sophia,  early  the 
next  morning.  It  was  night  before  we  reached  our  appointed 
stage ;  however,  after  seeing  her  provided  with  a  decent  apart- 
ment, and  having  ordered  the  hostess  to  prepare  proper  refresh- 
ments, I  kissed  her,  and  proceeded  towards  home.  And  now 
my  heart  caught  new  sensations  of  pleasure,  the  nearer  I  ap- 
proached that  peaceful  mansion.  As  a  bird  that  has  been 
frighted  from  its  nest,  my  affections  outwent  my  haste,  and 
hovered  round  my  little  fireside  with  all  the  rapture  of  expecta- 
tion. I  called  up  the  many  fond  things  I  had  to  say,  and  antici- 
pated the  welcome  I  was  to  receive.  I  already  felt  my  wife's 


PARDONED    BY  LOVE  117 

tender  embrace,  and  smiled  at  the  joy  of  my  little  ones.  As  I 
walked  but  slowly,  the  night  waned  apace.  The  labourers  of 
the  day  were  all  retired  to  rest ;  the  lights  were  out  in  every 
cottage;  no  sounds  were  heard  but  of  the  shrilling  cock,  and 
the  deep-mouthed  watch-dog,  at  hollow  distance.  I  approached 
my  little  abode  of  pleasure,  and,  before  I  was  within  a  furlong 
of  the  place,  our  honest  mastiff  came  running  to  welcome  me. 

It  was  now  near  midnight  that  I  came  to  knock  at  my  door : 
all  was  still  and  silent :  my  heart  dilated  with  unutterable  hap- 
piness, when,  to  my  amazement,  I  saw  the  house  bursting  out 
in  a  blaze  of  fire,  and  every  aperture  red  with  conflagration.  I 
gave  a  loud  convulsive  outcry,  and  fell  upon  the  pavement,  in- 
sensible. This  alarmed  my  son,  who  had,  till  this,  been  asleep ; 
and  he,  perceiving  the  flames,  instantly  waked  my  wife  and 
daughter ;  and  all  running  out,  naked,  and  wild  with  apprehen- 
sion, recalled  me  to  life  with  their  anguish.  But  it  was  only  to 
objects  of  new  terror ;  for  the  flames  had,  by  this  time,  caught 
the  roof  of  our  dwelling,  part  after  part  continuing  to  fall  in, 
while  the  family  stood,  with  silent  agony,  looking  on,  as  if 
they  enjoyed  the  blaze.  I  gazed  upon  them  and  upon  it  by 
turns,  and  then  looked  round  me  for  my  two  little  ones;  but 
they  were  not  to  be  seen.  0  misery!  "Where,"  cried  I, 
"where  are  my  little  ones?"  —  "They  are  burnt  to  death  in 
the  flames,"  said  my  wife  calmly,  "and  I  will  die  with  them." 
That  moment  I  heard  the  cry  of  the  babes  within,  who  were 
just  awaked  by  the  fire,  and  nothing  could  have  stopped  me. 
"  Where,  where  are  my  children  ? "  cried  I,  rushing  through  the 
flames,  and  bursting  the  door  of  the  chamber  in  which  they 
were  confined  !  —  "  Where  are  my  little  ones  1 "-  —  "  Here,  dear 
papa,  here  we  are,"  cried  they  together,  while  the  flames  were 
just  catching  the  bed  where  they  lay.  I  caught  them  both  in 
my  arms,  and  snatched  them  through  the  fire  as  fast  as  possible, 
while,  just  as  I  was  got  out,  the  roof  sunk  in.  "  Now,"  cried  J, 
holding  up  my  children,  "now  let  the  flames  burn  on,  and  all 


118  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

my  possessions  perish.  Here  they  are ;  I  have  saved  my  treas- 
ure. Here,  my  dearest,  here  are  our  treasures,  and  we  shall 
yet  be  happy."  We  kissed  our  little  darlings  a  thousand  times ; 
they  clasped  us  round  the  neck,  and  seemed  to  share  our  trans- 
ports, while  their  mother  laughed  and  wept  by  turns. 

I  now  stood  a  calm  spectator  of  the  flames ;  and,  after  some 
time,  began  to  perceive  that  my  arm  to  the  shoulder  was  scorched 
in  a  terrible  manner.  It  was,  therefore,  out  of  my  power  to  give 
my  son  any  assistance,  either  in  attempting  to  save  our  goods,  or 
preventing  the  flames  spreading  to  our  corn.  By  this  time  the 
neighbours  were  alarmed,  and  came  running  to  our  assistance ; 
but  all  they  could  do  was  to  stand,  like  us  —  spectators  of 
the  calamity. 

My  goods,  among  which  were  the  notes0  I  had  reserved  for 
my  daughters'  fortunes,  were  entirely  consumed,  except  a  box 
with  some  papers  that  stood  in  the  kitchen,  and  two  or  three 
things  more  of  little  consequence,  which  my  son  brought  away 
in  the  beginning.  The  neighbours  contributed,  however,  what 
they  could  to  lighten  our  distress.  They  brought  us  clothes, 
and  furnished  one  of  our  outhouses  with  kitchen  utensils  ;  so 
that  by  daylight  we  had  another,  though  a  wretched  dwelling, 
to  retire  to.  My  honest  next  neighbour  and  his  children  were 
not  the  least  assiduous  in  providing  us  with  everything  neces- 
sary, and  offering  whatever  consolation  untutored  benevolence 
could  suggest. 

When  the  fears  of  my  family  had  subsided,  curiosity  to  know 
the  cause  of  my  long  stay  began  to  take  place  :  having  therefore 
informed  them  of  every  particular,  I  proceeded  to  prepare  them 
for  the  reception  of  our  lost  one ;  and  though  we  had  nothing  but 
wretchedness  now  to  impart,  I  was  willing  to  procure  her  a  wel- 
come to  what  we  had.  This  task  would  have  been  more  difficult 
but  for  our  recent  calamity,  which  had  humbled  my  wife's  pride, 
and  blunted  it  by  more  poignant  afflictions.  Being  unable  to  go 
for  my  poor  child  myself,  as  my  arm  grew  very  painful,  I  sent 


PARDONED    BY   LOVE  119 

my  son  and  daughter,  who  soon  returned,  supporting  the  wretched 
delinquent,  who  had  not  the  courage  to  look  up  at  her  mother, 
whom  no  instructions  of  mine  could  persuade  to  a  perfect  recon- 
ciliation ;  for  women  have  a  much  stronger  sense  of  female  error 
than  men.  "Ah,  madam,"  cried  her  mother,  "this  is  but  a 
poor  place  you  are  come  to  after  so  much  finery.  My  daughter 
Sophy  and  I  can  afford  but  little  entertainment  to  persons  who 
have  kept  company  only  with  people  of  distinction.  Yes,  Miss 
Livy,  your  poor  father  and  I  have  suffered  very  much  of  late ; 
but  I  hope  Heaven  will  forgive  you."  During  this  reception, 
the  unhappy  victim  stood  pale  and  trembling,  unable  to  weep 
or  to  reply :  but  I  could  not  continue  a  silent  spectator  of  her 
distress ;  wherefore,  assuming  a  degree  of  severity  in  my  voice 
and  manner,  which  was  ever  followed  with  instant  submission, 
"  I  entreat,  woman,  that  my  words  may  be  now  marked  once 
for  all :  I  have  here  brought  you  back  a  poor  deluded  wanderer ; 
her  return  to  duty  demands  the  revival  of  our  tenderness.  The 
real  hardships  of  life  are  now  coming  fast  upon  us ;  let  us  not, 
therefore,  increase  them  by  dissension  among  each  other.  If 
we  live  harmoniously  together,  -we  may  yet  be  contented,  as 
there  are  enough  of  us  to  shut  out  the  censuring  world,  and 
keep  each  other  in  countenance.  The  kindness  of  Heaven  is 
promised  to  the  penitent,  and  let  ours  be  directed  by  the  ex- 
ample. Heaven,  we  are  assured,  is  much  more  pleased  to  view 
a  repentant  sinner,  than  ninety-nine  persons  who  have  supported 
a  course  of  undeviating  rectitude.  And  this  is  right ;  for  that 
single  effort  bywhich  we  stop  short  in  the  down-hill  path  to 
perdition,  is  itself  a  greater  exertion  of  virtue  than  a  hundred 
acts  of  justice." 


120  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

CHAPTER  XXIII 

None  but  the  Guilty  can  be  long  and  completely  miserable 

SOME  assiduity  was  now  required  to  make  our  present  abode 
as  convenient  as  possible,  and  we  were  soon  again  qualified  to 
enjoy  our  former  serenity.  Being  disabled  myself  from  assisting 
my  son  in  our  usual  occupations,  I  read  to  my  family  from  the 
few  books  that  were  saved,  and  particularly  from  such  as,  by 
amusing  the  imagination,  contributed  to  ease  the  heart.  Our 
good  neighbours,  too,  came  every  day,  with  the  kindest  condo- 
lence, and  fixed  a  time  in  which  they  were  all  to  assist  at  repair- 
ing my  former  dwelling.  Honest  Farmer  Williams  was  not  last 
among  these  visitors ;  but  heartily  offered  his  friendship.  He 
would  even  have  renewed  his  addresses  to  my  daughter ;  but 
she  rejected  him  in  such  a  manner  as  totally  repressed  his 
future  solicitations.  Her  grief  seemed  formed  for  continuing ; 
and  she  was  the  only  person  of  our  little  society  that  a  week 
did  not  restore  to  cheerfulness.  She  now  lost  that  unblushing 
innocence  which  once  taught  her  to  respect  herself,  and  to  seek 
pleasure  by  pleasing.  Anxiety  now  had  taken  strong  possession 
of  her  mind ;  her  beauty  began  to  be  impaired  with  her  consti- 
tution, and  neglect  still  more  contributed  to  diminish  it.  Every 
tender  epithet  bestowed  on  her  sister  brought  a  pang  to  her 
heart,  and  a  tear  to  her  eye;  and  as  one  vice,  though  cured, 
ever  plants  others  where  it  has  been,  so  her  former  guilt,  though 
driven  out  by  repentance,  left  jealousy  and  envy  behind.  I 
strove  a  thousand  ways  to  lessen  her  care,  and  even  forgot  my 
own  pain  in  a  concern  for  hers,  collecting  such  amusing  passages 
of  history  as  a  strong  memory  and  some  reading  could  suggest. 
"Our  happiness,  my  dear,"  I  would  say,  "is  in  the  power  of 
One  who  can  bring  it  about  a  thousand  unforeseen  ways,  that 
mock  our  foresight.  If  example  be  necessary  to  prove  this,  I'll 


NONE    BUT    THE    GUILTY   MISERABLE  121 

give  you  a  story,0  my  child,  told  us  by  a  grave,  though  some- 
times a  romancing  historian. 

"  Matilda  was  married  very  young  to  a  Neapolitan  nobleman 
of  the  first  quality,  and  found  herself  a  widow  and  a  mother  at 
the  age  of  fifteen.  As  she  stood  one  day  caressing  her  infant 
son  in  the  open  window  of  an  apartment  which  hung  over  the 
river  Volturna,  the  child  with  a  sudden  spring  leaped  from  her 
arms  into  the  flood  below,  and  disappeared  in  a  moment.  The 
mother,  struck  with  instant  surprise,  and  making  an  effort  to 
save  him,  plunged  in  after ;  but  far  from  being  able  to  assist 
the  infant,  she  herself  with  great  difficulty  escaped  to  the  oppo- 
site shore,  just  when  some  French  soldiers  were  plundering  the 
country  on  that  side,  who  immediately  made  her  their  prisoner. 

"  As  the  war  was  then  carried  on  between  the  French  and 
Italians  with  the  utmost  inhumanity,  they  were  going  at  once 
to  perpetrate  those  two  extremes  suggested  by  appetite  and 
cruelty.  This  base  resolution,  however,  was  opposed  by  a 
young  officer,  who,  though  their  retreat  required  the  utmost 
expedition,  placed  her  behind  him,  and  brought  her  in  safety  to 
his  native  city.  Her  beauty  at  first  caught  his  eye ;  her  merit, 
soon  after,  his  heart.  They  were  married :  he  rose  to  the  high- 
est posts;  they  lived  long  together,  and  were  happy.  But 
the  felicity  of  a  soldier  can  never  be  called  permanent :  after 
an  interval  of  several  years,  the  troops  which  he  commanded 
having  met  with  repulse,  he  was  obliged  to  take  shelter  in  the 
city  where  he  had  lived  with  his  wife.  Here  they  suffered  a 
siege,  and  the  city  at  length  was  taken.  Few  histories  can  pro- 
duce more  various  instances  of  cruelty  than  those  which  the 
French  and  Italians  at  that  time  exercised  upon  each  other.  It 
was  resolved  by  the  victors,  upon  this  occasion,  to  put  all  the 
French  prisoners  to  death ;  but  particularly  the  husband  of  the 
unfortunate  Matilda,  as  he  was  principally  instrumental  in  pro- 
tracting the  siege.  Their  determinations  were,  in  general,  exe- 
cuted almost  as  soon  as  resolved  upon.  The  captive  soldier  was 


122  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

led  forth,  and  the  executioner  with  his  sword  stood  ready,  while 
the  spectators  in  gloomy  silence  awaited  the  fatal  blow,  which 
was  only  suspended  till  the  general  who  presided  as  judge  should 
give  the  signal.  It  was  in  this  interval  of  anguish  and  expecta- 
tion that  Matilda  came  to  take  her  last  farewell  of  her  husband 
and  deliverer,  deploring  her  wretched  situation,  and  the  cruelty 
of  fate,  that  had  saved  her  from  perishing  by  a  premature  death 
in  the  river  Volturna,  to  be  the  spectator  of  still  greater  calami- 
ties. The  general,  who  was  a  young  man,  was  struck  with  sur- 
prise at  her  beauty,  and  pity  at  her  distress;  but  with  still 
stronger  emotions  when  he  heard  her  mention  her  former  dan- 
gers. He  was  her  son,  the  infant  for  whom  she  had  encountered 
so  much  danger.  He  acknowledged  her  at  once  as  his  mother, 
and  fell  at  her  feet.  The  rest  may  be  easily  supposed :  the 
captive  was  set  free,  and  all  the  happiness  that  love,  friendship, 
and  duty  could  confer  on  each,  were  united." 

In  this  manner  I  would  attempt  to  amuse  my  daughter :  but 
she  listened  with  divided  attention ;  for  her  own  misfortunes 
engrossed  all  the  pity  she  once  had  for  those  of  another,  and 
nothing  gave  her  ease.  In  company  she  dreaded  contempt ;  and 
in  solitude  she  only  found  anxiety.  Such  was  the  colour  of  her 
wretchedness,  when  we  received  certain  information  that  Mr. 
Thornhill  was  going  to  be  married  to  Miss  Wilmot,  for  whom  I 
always  suspected  he  had  a  real  passion,  though  he  took  every 
opportunity  before  me  to  express  his  contempt  both  of  her  per- 
son and  fortune.  This  news  only  served  to  increase  poor  Olivia's 
affliction  :  such  a  flagrant  breach  of  fidelity  was  more  than  her 
courage  could  support.  I  was  resolved,  however,  to  get  more 
certain  information,  and  to  defeat,  if  possible,  the  completion  of 
his  designs,  by  sending  my  son  to  old  Mr.  Wilmot's,  with  in- 
structions to  know  the  truth  of  the  report,  and  to  deliver  Miss 
Wilmot  a  letter,  intimating  Mr.  Thornhill's  conduct  in  my 
family.  My  son  went  in  pursuance  of  my  directions,  and  in 
three  days  returned,  assuring  us  of  the  truth  of  the  account ; 


NONE    BUT    THE    GUILTY   MISERABLE  123 

but  that  he  had  found  it  impossible  to  deliver  the  letter,  which 
he  was  therefore  obliged  to  leave,  as  Mr.  Thornhill  and  Miss 
Wilmot  were  visiting  round  the  country.  They  were  to  be 
married,  he  said,  in  a  few  days,  having  appeared  together  at 
church  the  Sunday  before  he  was  there,  in  great  splendour,  the 
bride  attended  by  six  young  ladies,  and  he  by  as  many  gentle- 
men. Their  approaching  nuptials  filled  the  whole  country  with 
rejoicing,  and  they  usually  rode  out  together  in  the  grandest 
equipage  that  had  been  seen  in  the  country  for  many  years. 
All  the  friends  of  both  families,  he  said,  were  there,  particularly 
the  Squire's  uncle,  Sir  William  Thornhill,  who  bore  so  good  a 
character.  He  added,  that  nothing  but  mirth  and  feasting  were 
going  forward ;  that  all  the  country  praised  the  young  bride's 
beauty,  and  the  bridegroom's  fine  person,  and  that  they  were 
immensely  fond  of  each  other;  concluding,  that  he  could  not 
help  thinking  Mr.  .Thornhill  one  of  the  most  happy  men  in  the 
world. 

"Why,  let  him,  if  he  can,"  returned  I:  "but,  my  son,  ob- 
serve this  bed  of  straw  and  unsheltering  roof;  those  mouldering 
walls  and  humid  floor ;  my  wretched  body  thus  disabled  by  fire, 
and  my  children  weeping  round  me  for  bread :  you  have  come 
home,  my  child,  to  all  this ;  yet  here,  even  here,  you  see  a  man 
that  would  not  for  a  thousand  worlds  exchange  situations.  Oh, 
my  children,  if  you  could  but  learn  to  commune  with  your  own 
hearts,  and  know  what  noble  company  you  can  make  them,  you 
would  little  regard  the  elegance  and  splendour  of  the  worthless. 
Almost  all  men  have  been  taught  to  call  life  a  passage,  and 
themselves  the  travellers.  The  similitude  still  may  be  improved, 
when  we  observe  that  the  good  are  joyful  and  serene,  like  trav- 
ellers that  are  going  towards  home ;  the  wicked  but  by  intervals 
happy,  like  travellers  that  are  going  into  exile." 

My  compassion  for  my  poor  daughter,  overpowered  by  this  new 
disaster,  interrupted  what  I  had  further  to  observe.  I  bade  her 
mother  support  her,  and  after  a  short  time  she  recovered.  She 


124  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

appeared  from  that  time  more  calm,  and  I  imagined  had  gained 
a  new  degree  of  resolution ;  but  appearances  deceived  me :  for 
her  tranquillity  was  the  languor  of  over-wrought  resentment. 
A  supply  of  provisions,  charitably  sent  us  by  my  kind  parishion- 
ers, seemed  to  diffuse  new  cheerfulness  among  the  rest  of  the 
family,  nor  was  I  displeased  at  seeing  them  once  more  sprightly 
and  at  ease.  It  would  have  been  unjust  to  damp  their  satisfac- 
tions, merely  to  condole  with  resolute  melancholy,  or  to  burden 
them  with  a  sadness  they  did  not  feel.  Thus,  once  more  the 
tale  went  round,  and  the  song  was  demanded,  and  cheerfulness 
condescended  to  hover  round  our  little  habitation. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

Fresh  Calamities 

THE  next  morning  the  sun  arose  with  peculiar  warmth  for  the 
season,  so  that  we  agreed  to  breakfast  together  on  the  honey- 
suckle bank ;  where,  while  we  sat,  my  youngest  daughter  at  my 
request  joined  her  voice  to  the  concert  on  the  trees  about  us.  It 
was  in  this  place  my  poor  Olivia  first  met  her  seducer,  and  every 
object  served  to  recall  her  sadness.  But  that  melancholy  which 
is  excited  by  objects  of  pleasure,  or  inspired  by  sounds  of  har- 
mony, soothes  the  heart  instead  of  corroding  it.  Her  mother, 
too,  upon  this  occasion,  felt  a  pleasing  distress,  and  wept,  and 
loved  her  daughter  as  before.  "Do,  my  pretty  Olivia,"  cried 
she,  "  let  us  have  that  little  melancholy  air  your  papa  was  so 
fond  of;  your  sister  Sophy  has  already  obliged  us.  Do,  child; 
it  will  please  your  old  father."  She  complied  in  a  manner  so 
exquisitely  pathetic  as  moved  me  : 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy  ? 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 


FRESH    CALAMITIES  125 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 
To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 

And  wring  his  bosom,  is  —  to  die.0 

As  she  was  concluding  the  last  stanza,  to  which  an  interrup- 
tion in  her  voice  from  sorrow  gave  peculiar  softness,  the  appear- 
ance of  Mr.  Thornhill's  equipage  at  a  distance  alarmed  us  all, 
but  particularly  increased  the  uneasiness  of  my  eldest  daughter, 
who,  desirous  of  shunning  her  betrayer,  returned  to  the  house 
with  her  sister.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was  alighted  from  his 
chariot,  and  making  up  to  the  place  where  I  was  still  sitting, 
inquired  after  my  health  with  his  usual  air  of  familiarity.  "  Sir," 
replied  I,  "  your  present  assurance  only  serves  to  aggravate  the 
baseness  of  your  character ;  and  there  was  a  time  when  I  would 
have  chastised  your  insolence  for  presuming  thus  to  appear  be- 
fore me.  But  now  you  are  safe ;  for  age  has  cooled  my  passions, 
and  my  calling  restrains  them." 

" I  vow,  my  dear  sir,"  returned  he,  "I  am  amazed  at  all  this  ; 
nor  can  I  understand  what  it  all  means  !  I  hope  you  don't  think 
your  daughter's  late  excursion  with  me  had  anything  criminal  in 
it?" 

"Go,"  cried  I:  "thou  art  a  wretch,  a  poor,  pitiful  wretch, 
and  every  way  a  liar :  but  your  meanness  secures  you  from  my  ' 
anger !  Yet,  sir,  I  am  descended  from  a  family  that  would  not 
have  borne  this  !  —  And  so,  thou  vile  thing,  to  gratify  a  momen- 
tary passion,  thou  hast  made  one  poor  creature  wretched  for 
life,  and  polluted  a  family  that  had  nothing  but  honour  for 
their  portion  ! " 

"  If  she  or  you,"  returned  he,  "  are  resolved  to  be  miserable, 
I  cannot  help  it.  But  you  may  still  be  happy ;  and  whatever 
opinion  you  may  have  formed  of  me,  you  shall  ever  find  me 
ready  to  contribute  to  it.  We  can  marry  her  to  another  in  a 
short  time ;  and,  what  is  more,  she  may  keep  her  lover  beside ; 
for  I  protest  I  shall  ever  continue  to  have  a  true  regard  for  her," 


126  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

I  found  all  my  passions  alarmed  at  this  new  degrading  pro- 
posal ;  for  though  the  mind  may  often  be  calm  under  great  in- 
juries, little  villany  can  at  any  time  get  within  the  soul,  and 
sting  it  into  rage.  —  "  Avoid  my  sight,  thou  reptile  !  "  cried  I, 
"  nor  continue  to  insult  me  with  thy  presence.  Were  my  brave 
son  at  home,  he  would  not  suffer  this ;  but  I  am  old  and  dis- 
abled, and  every  way  undone." 

"I  find,"  cried  he,  "you  are  bent  upon  obliging  me  to  talk 
in  a  harsher  manner  than  I  intended.  But  as  I  have  shown 
you  what  may  be  hoped  from  my  friendship,  it  may  not  be 
improper  to  represent  what  may  be  the  consequences  of  my 
resentment.  My  attorney,  to  whom  your  late  bond0  has  been 
transferred,  threatens  hard;  nor  do  I  know  how  to  prevent 
the  course  of  justice,  except  by  paying  the  money  myself, 
which,  as  I  have  been  at  some  expenses  lately  previous  to  my 
intended  marriage,  is  not  so  easy  to  be  done.  And  then  my 
steward  talks  of  driving0  for  the  rent ;  it  is  certain  he  knows 
his  duty ;  for  I  never  trouble  myself  with  affairs  of  that  nature. 
Yet  still  I  could  wish  to  serve  you,  and  even  to  have  you  and 
your  daughter  present  at  my  marriage,  which  is  shortly  to  be 
solemnized  with  Miss  Wilmot ;  it  is  even  the  request  of  my 
charming  Arabella  herself,  whom  I  hope  you  will  not  refuse." 

"Mr.  Thornhill,"  replied  I,  "hear  me  once  for  all:  as  to 
your  marriage  with  any  but  my  daughter,  that  I  never  will 
consent  to ;  and  though  your  friendship  could  raise  me  to  a 
throne,  or  your  resentment  sink  me  to  the  grave,  yet  would  I 
despise  both.  Thou  hast  once  wofully,  irreparably  deceived 
me.  I  reposed  my  heart  upon  thine  honour,  and  have  found 
its  baseness.  Never  more,  therefore,  expect  friendship  from 
me.  Go,  and  possess  what  fortune  has  given  thee  —  beauty, 
riches,  health,  and  pleasure.  Go,  and  leave  me  to  want,  infamy, 
disease,  and  sorrow.  Yet,  humbled  as  I  am,  shall  my  heart 
still  vindicate  its  dignity ;  and  though  thou  hast  my  forgiveness, 
thou  shalt  ever  have  my  contempt," 


FRESH    CALAMITIES  127 

"If  so,"  returned  he,  " depend  upon  it  you  shall  feel  the 
effects  of  this  insolence ;  and  we  shall  shortly  see  which  is  the 
fittest  object  of  scorn,  you  or  me."-— Upon  which  he  departed 
abruptly. 

My  wife  and  son,  who  were  present  at  this  interview,  seemed 
terrified  with  apprehension.  My  daughters  also,  finding  that 
he  was  gone,  came  out  to  be  informed  of  the  result  of  our  con- 
ference, which,  when  known,  alarmed  them  not  less  than  the 
rest.  But  as  to  myself,  I  disregarded  the  utmost  stretch  of 
his  malevolence  :  he  had  already  struck  the  blow,  and  now  I 
stood  prepared  to  repel  every  new  effort,  like  one  of  those  in- 
struments0 used  in  the  art  of  war,  which,  however  thrown,  still 
presents  a  point  to  receive  the  enemy. 

We  soon,  however,  found  that  he  had  not  threatened  in  vain  ; 
for  the  very  next  morning  his  steward  came  to  demand  my 
annual  rent,  which,  by  the  train  of  accidents  already  related,  I 
was  unable  to  pay.  The  consequence  of  my  incapacity  was  his 
driving  my  cattle  that  evening,  and  their  being  appraised  and 
sold  the  next  day  for  less  than  half  their  value.  My  wife  and 
children  now  therefore  entreated  me  to  comply  upon  any  terms, 
rather  than  incur  certain  destruction.  They  even  begged  of  me 
to  admit  his  visits  once  more,  and  used  all  their  little  eloquence 
to  paint  the  calamities  I  was  going  to  endure,  —  the  terrors  of 
a  prison  in  so  rigorous  a  season  as  the  present,  with  the  danger 
that  threatened  my  health  from  the  late  accident  that  happened 
by  the  fire.  But  I  continued  inflexible. 

"Why,  my  treasures,"  cried  I,  "why  will  you  thus  attempt 
to  persuade  me  to  the  thing  that  is  not  right  ?  My  duty  has 
taught  me  to  forgive  him;  but  my  conscience  will  not  permit 
me  to  approve.  Would  you  have  me  applaud  to  the  world  what 
my  heart  must  internally  condemn1?  Would  you  have  me 
tamely  sit  down  and  flatter  our  infamous  betrayer ;  and,  to 
avoid  a  prison,  continually  surfer  the  more  galling  bonds  of 
mental  confinement  ?  Ko?  never  !  If  we  are  to  be  taken  from 


128  THE     VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

this  abode,  only  let  us  hold  to  the  right ;  and  wherever  we  are 
thrown,  we  can  still  retire  to  a  charming  apartment,  when  we 
can  look  round  our  own  hearts  with  intrepidity  and  with  pleas- 
ure ! " 

In  this  manner  we  spent  that  evening.  Early  the  next  morn- 
ing, as  the  snow  had  fallen  in  great  abundance  in  the  night,  my 
son  was  employed  in  clearing  it  away,  and  opening  a  passage 
before  the  door.  He  had  not  been  thus  engaged  long,  when  he 
came  running  in,  with  looks  all  pale,  to  tell  us  that  two  stran- 
gers, whom  he  knew  to  be  officers  of  justice/  were  making 
towards  the  house. 

Just  as  he  spoke  they  came  in,  and  approaching  the  bed  where 
I  lay,  after  previously  informing  me  of  their  employment  and 
business,  made  me  their  prisoner,  bidding  me  prepare  to  go  with 
them  to  the  county  gaol,  which  was  eleven  miles  off. 

"My  friends,"  said  I,  "this  is  severe  weather  in  which  you 
have  come  to  take  me  to  a  prison ;  and  it  is  particularly  unfort- 
unate at  this  time,  as  one  of  my  arms  has  lately  been  burnt  in 
a  terrible  manner,  and  it  has  thrown  me  into  a  slight  fever,  and 
I  want  clothes  to  cover  me,  and  I  am  now  too  weak  and  old  to 
walk  far  in  such  deep  snow  ;  but,  if  it  must  be  so  "  - 

I  then  turned  to  my  wife  and  children,  and  directed  them  to 
get  together  what  few  things  were  Left  us,  and  to  prepare  imme- 
diately for  leaving  this  place.  I  entreated  them  to  be  expedi- 
tious ;  and  desired  my  son  to  assist  his  eldest  sister,  who,  from 
a  consciousness  that  she  was  the  cause  of  all  our  calamities,  was 
fallen,  and  had  lost  anguish  in  insensibility.  I  encouraged  my 
wife,  who,  pale  and  trembling,  clasped  our  affrighted  little 
ones  in  her  arms,  that  clung  to  her  bosom  in  silence,  dreading 
to  look  round  at  the  strangers.  In  the  meantime  my  youngest 
daughter  prepared  for  our  departure,  and  as  she  received  several 
hints  to  use  despatch,  in  about  an  hour  we  were  ready  to 
depart. 


SITUATION   ALTOGETHER    WRETCHED        129 


CHAPTER  XXV 

No  Situation,  however  wretched  it  seems,  but  has  some  sort  of  Com- 
fort attending  it 

WE  set  forward  from  this  peaceful  neighbourhood,  and  walked 
on  slowly.  My  eldest  daughter  being  enfeebled  by  a  slow  fever, 
which  had  begun  for  some  days  to  undermine  her  constitution, 
one  of  the  officers  who  had  an  horse  kindly  took  her  up  behind 
him ;  for  even  these  men  cannot  entirely  divest  themselves  of 
humanity.  My  son  led  one  of  the  little  ones  by  the  hand,  and 
my  wife  the  other,  while  I  leaned  upon  my  youngest  girl,  whose 
tears  fell,  not  for  her  own,  but  my  distresses. 

We  were  now  got  from  my  late  dwelling  about  two  miles, 
when  we  saw  a  crowd,  running  and  shouting  behind  us,  con- 
sisting of  about  fifty  of  my  poorest  parishioners:  These,  with 
dreadful  imprecations,  soon  seized  upon  the  two  officers  of  jus- 
tice, and  swearing  they  would  never  see  their  minister  go  to 
gaol  while  they  had  a  drop  of  blood  to  shed  in  his  defence,  were 
going  to  use  them  with  great  severity.  The  consequence  might 
have  been  fatal,  had  I  not  immediately  interposed,  and  with 
some  difficulty  rescued  the  officers  from  the  hands  of  the  enraged 
multitude.  My  children,  who  looked  upon  my  delivery  now  as 
certain,  appeared  transported  with  joy,  and  were  incapable  of 
containing  their  raptures.  But  they  were  soon  undeceived,  upon 
hearing  me  address  the  poor  deluded  people,  who  came,  as  they 
imagined,  to  do  me  service. 

"  What !  my  friends,"  cried  I,  "  and  is  this  the  way  you  love 
me  ?  Is  this  the  manner  you  obey  the  instructions  I  have  given 
you  from  the  pulpit  ?  Thus  to  fly  in  the  face  of  justice,  and 
bring  down  ruin  on  yourselves  and  me  ?  Which  is  your  ring- 
leader? Show  me  the  man  that  has  thus  seduced  you.  As 
sure  as  he  lives  he  shall  feel  my  resentment.  Alas !  my  dear 


130  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

deluded  flock,  return  back  to  the  duty  you  owe  to  God,  to  your 
country,  and  to  me.  I  shall  yet  perhaps  one  day  see  you  in 
greater  felicity  here,  and  contribute  to  make  your  lives  more 
happy.  But  let  it  at  least  be  my  comfort,  when  I  pen  my  fold 
for  immortality,  that  not  one  here  shall  be  wanting." 

They  now  seemed  all  repentance,  and,  melting  into  tears, 
came  one  after  the  other  to  bid  me  farewell.  I  shook  each 
tenderly  by  the  hand,  and  leaving  them  my  blessing,  proceeded 
forward  without  meeting  any  further  interruption.  Some  hours 
before  night,  we  reached  the  town,  or  rather  village,  for  it  con- 
sisted but  of  a  few  mean  houses,  having  lost  all  its  former 
opulence,  and  retaining  no  marks  of  its  ancient  superiority  but 
the  gaol. 

Upon  entering,  we  put  up  at  an  inn  where  we  had  such  re- 
freshments as  could  most  readily  be  procured,  and  I  supped  with 
my  family  with  my  usual  cheerfulness.  After  seeing  them  prop- 
erly accommodated  for  that  night,  I  next  attended  the  sheriff's 
officers  to  the  prison,  which  had  formerly  been  built  for  the  pur- 
poses of  war,  and  consisted  of  one  large  apartment,  strongly 
grated,  and  paved  with  stone,  common  to  both  felons  and 
debtors0  at  certain  hours  in  the  four-and-twenty.  Besides  this, 
every  prisoner  had  a  separate  cell,  where  he  was  locked  in  for 
the  night. 

I  expected,  upon  my  entrance,  to  find  nothing  but  lamenta- 
tions and  various  sounds  of  misery  :  but  it  was  very  different. 
The  prisoners  seemed  all  employed  in  one  common  design,  that 
of  forgetting  thought  in  merriment  or  clamour.  I  was  apprised 
of  the  usual  perquisites  required  upon  these  occasions,  and  im- 
mediately complied  with  the  demand,  though  the  little  money 
I  had  was  very  near  being  all  exhausted.  This  was  immediately 
sent  away  for  liquor,  and  the  whole  prison  was  soon  filled  with 
riot,  laughter,  and  profaneness. 

"How,"  cried  I  to  myself,  "shall  men  so  very  wicked  be 
cheerful,  and  shall  I  be  melancholy  1  I  feel  only  the  same  con- 


NO    SITUATION   ALTOGETHER    WRETCHED        131 

finement  with  them,  and  I  think  I  have  more  reason  to  be 
happy." 

With  such  reflections  I  laboured  to  become  cheerful;  but 
cheerfulness  was  never  yet  produced  by  effort,  which  is  itself 
painful.  As  I  was  sitting,  therefore,  in  a  corner  of  the  gaol,  in 
a  pensive  posture,  one  of  my  fellow-prisoners  came  up,  and,  sit- 
ting by  me,  entered  into  conversation.  It  was  my  constant  rule 
in  life  never  to  avoid  the  conversation  of  any  man  who  seemed 
to  desire  it :  for  if  good,  I  might  profit  by  his  instruction ;  if 
bad,  he  might  be  assisted  by  mine.  I  found  this  to  be  a  know- 
ing man,  of  strong  unlettered  sense,  but  a  thorough  knowledge 
of  the  world,  as  it  is  called,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  of  human 
nature  on  the  wrong  side.  He  asked  me  if  I  had  taken  care 
to  provide  myself  with  a  bed,  which  was  a  circumstance  I  had 
never  once  attended  to. 

"That's  unfortunate,"  cried  he,  "as  you  are  allowed  here 
nothing  but  straw,  and  your  apartment  is  very  large  and  cold. 
However,  you  seem  to  be  something  of  a  gentleman,  and,  as  I 
have  been  one  myself  in  my  time,  part  of  my  bed-clothes  are 
heartily  at  your  service." 

I  thanked  him,  professing  my  surprise  at  finding  such  human- 
ity in  a  gaol  in  misfortunes ;  adding,  to  let  him  see  that  I  was 
a  scholar,  "That  the  sage  ancient  seemed  to  understand  the 
value  of  company  in  affliction,  when  he  said  Ton  kosmon  aire, 
ei  dos  ton  etairon ;  and,  in  fact,"  continued  I,  "what  is  the 
world  if  it  affords  only  solitude  1 " 

"You  talk  of  the  world,  sir,"  returned  my  fellow-prisoner; 
"  the  world  is  in  its  dotage ;  and  yet  the  cosmogony  or  creation 
of  the  world  has  puzzled  the  philosophers  of  every  age.  What 
a  medley  of  opinions  have  they  not  broached  upon  the  creation 
of  the  world  !  Sanchoniathon,  Manetho,  Berosus,  and  Ocellus 
Lucanus,  have  all  attempted  it  in  vain.  The  latter  has  these 
words,  Anarchon  ara  Icai  atelutaion  to  pan,  which  implies  "  - 
"I  ask  pardon,  sir,"  cried  I,  "for  interrupting  so  much  learn- 


132  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

ing ;  but  I  think  I  have  heard  all  this  before.  Have  I  not  had 
the  pleasure  of  once  seeing  you  at  Wellbridge  fair,  and  is  not 
your  name  Ephraim  Jenkinson?"  At  this  demand  he  only 
sighed.  "I  suppose  you  must  recollect,"  resumed  I,  "one 
Doctor  Primrose,  from  whom  you  bought  a  horse1?" 

He  now  at  once  recollected  me;  for  the  gloominess  of  the 
place  and  the  approaching  night  had  prevented  his  distinguish- 
ing my  features  before.  "Yes,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Jenkinson, 
"  I  remember  you  perfectly  well ;  I  bought  a  horse,  but  forgot 
to  pay  for  him.  Your  neighbour  Flam  borough  is  the  only  prose- 
cutor I  am  any  way  afraid  of  at  the  next  assizes ;  for  he  intends 
to  swear  positively  against  me  as  a  coiner.  I  am  heartily  sorry, 
sir,  I  ever  deceived  you,  or  indeed  any  man ;  for  you  see,"  con- 
tinued he,  showing  his  shackles,  "  what  my  tricks  have  brought 
me  to." 

"Well,  sir,"  replied  I,  "your  kindness  in  offering  me  assist- 
ance when  you  could  expect  no  return,  shall  be  repaid  with  my 
endeavours  to  soften,  or  totally  suppress  Mr.  Flamborough's 
evidence,  and  I  will  send  my  son  to  him  for  that  purpose  the 
first  opportunity ;  nor  do  I  in  the  least  doubt  but  he  will  com- 
ply with  my  request ;  and  as  to  my  own  evidence,  you  need  be 
under  no  uneasiness  about  that." 

"Well,  sir,"  cried  he,  "all  the  return  I  can  make  shall  be 
yours.  You  shall  have  more  than  half  my  bed-clothes  to-night, 
and  I'll  take  care  to  stand  your  friend  in  the  prison,  where  I 
think  I  have  some  influence." 

I  thanked  him,  and  could  not  avoid  being  surprised  at  the 
present  youthful  change  in  his  aspect ;  for  at  the  time  I  had 
seen  him  before,  he  appeared  at  least  sixty.  "Sir,"  answered 
he,  "you  are  little  acquainted  with  the  world;  I  had,  at  that 
time,  false  hair,  and  have  learnt  the  art  of  counterfeiting  every 
age  from  seventeen  to  seventy.  Ah,  sir !  had  I  but  bestowed 
half  the  pains  in  learning  a  trade  that  I  have  in  learning  to  be 
a  scoundrel,  I  might  have  been  a  rich  man  at  this  day.  But, 


REFORMATION   IN    THE    GAOL  133 

rogue  as  I  am,  still  I  may  be  your  friend,  and  that,  perhaps, 
when  you  least  expect  it." 

We  were  now  prevented  from  further  conversation  by  the 
arrival  of  the  gaoler's  servants,  who  came  to  call  over  the  pris- 
oners' names,  and  lock  up  for  the  night.  A  fellow  also,  with  a 
bundle  of  straw  for  my  bed,  attended,  who  led  me  along  a  dark 
narrow  passage,  into  a  room  paved  like  the  common  prison,  and 
in  one  corner  of  this  I  spread  my  bed,  and  the  clothes  given  me 
by  my  fellow-prisoner;  which  done,  my  conductor,  who  was 
civil  enough,  bade  me  a  good  night.  After  my  usual  medita- 
tions, and  having  praised  my  Heavenly  corrector,  I  laid  myself 
down,  and  slept  with  the  utmost  tranquillity  till  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  Reformation  in  the  Gaol.     To  make  Laws  complete,  they  should 
reward  as  well  as  punish 

THE  next  morning  early,  I  was  awakened  by  my  family, 
whom  I  found  in  tears  at  my  bedside.  The  gloomy  strength  of 
everything  about  us,  it  seems,  had  daunted  them.  I  gently  re- 
buked their  sorrow,  assuring  them  I  had  never  slept  with  greater 
tranquillity ;  and  next  inquired  after  my  eldest  daughter,  who 
was  not  among  them.  They  informed  me  that  yesterday's  un- 
easiness and  fatigue  had  increased  her  fever,  and  it  was  judged 
proper  to  leave  her  behind.  My  next  care  was  to  send  my  son 
to  procure  a  room  or  two  to  lodge  the  family  in,  as  near  the 
prison  as  conveniently  could  be  found.  He  obeyed ;  but  could  only 
find  one  apartment,  which  was  hired  at  a  small  expense  for  his 
mother  and  sisters,  the  gaoler,  with  humanity,  consenting  to  let 
him  and  his  two  little  brothers  lie  in  the  prison  with  me.  A 
bed  was  therefore  prepared  for  them  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
which  I  thought  answered  very  conveniently.  I  was  willing, 


134  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

however,  previously  to  know  whether  my  little  children  chose 
to  lie  in  a  place  which  seemed  to  fright  them  upon  entrance. 

"  Well,"  cried  I,  "my  good  boys,  how  do  you  like  your  bed1? 
I  hope  you  are  not  afraid  to  lie  in  this  room,  dark  as  it  appears  1 " 

"No,  papa,"  says  Dick,  "I  am  not  afraid  to  lie  anywhere, 
where  you  are." 

"And  I,"  says  Bill,  who  was  yet  but  four  years  old,  "love 
every  place  best  that  my  papa  is  in." 

After  this  I  allotted  to  each  of  the  family  what  they  were  to 
do.  My  daughter  was  particularly  directed  to  watch  her  declin- 
ing sister's  health ;  my  wife  was  to  attend  me ;  my  little  boys 
were  to  read  to  me :  "And  as  for  you,  my  son,"  continued  I, 
"  it  is  by  the  labour  of  your  hands  we  must  all  hope  to  be  sup- 
ported. Your  wages  as  a  day-labourer  will  be  fully  sufficient, 
with  proper  frugality,  to  maintain  us  all,  and  comfortably  too. 
Thou  art  now  sixteen  years  old,  and  hast  strength;  and  it  was 
given  thee,  my  son,  for  very  useful  purposes ;  for  it  must  save 
from  famine0  your  helpless  parents  and  family.  Prepare,  then, 
this  evening,  to  look  out  for  work  against  to-morrow,  and  bring 
home  every  night  what  money  you  earn  for  our  support." 

Having  thus  instructed  him,  and  settled  the  rest,  I  walked 
down  to  the  common  prison,  where  I  could  enjoy  more  air  and 
room.  But  I  was  not  long  there  when  the  execrations,  lewd- 
ness,  and  brutality  that  invaded  me  on  every  side,  drove  me 
back  to  my  apartment  again.  Here  I  sat  for  some  time  ponder- 
ing upon  the  strange  infatuation  of  wretches,  who,  finding  all 
mankind  in  open  arms  against  them,  were  labouring  to  make 
themselves  a  future  and  a  tremendous  enemy. 

Their  insensibility  excited  my  highest  compassion,  and  blotted 
my  own  uneasiness  from  my  mind.  It  even  appeared  a  duty 
incumbent  upon  me  to  attempt  to  reclaim  them.  I  resolved, 
therefore,  once  more  to  return,  and,  in  spite  of  their  contempt, 
to  give  them  my  advice,  and  conquer  them  by  my  perseverance. 
Going,  therefore,  among  them  again,  I  informed  Mr.  Jenkinson 


REFORMATION   IN    THE    GAOL  135 

of  my  design,  at  which  he  laughed  heartily,  but  communicated 
it  to  the  rest.  The  proposal  was  received  with  the  greatest 
good  humour,  as  it  promised  to  afford  a  new  fund  of  entertain- 
ment to  persons  who  had  now  no  other  resource  for  mirth  but 
what  could  be  derived  from  ridicule  or  debauchery. 

I  therefore  read  them  a  portion  of  the  service  with  a  loud, 
unaffected  voice,  and  found  my  audience  perfectly  merry  upon 
the  occasion.  Lewd  whispers,  groans  of  contrition  burlesqued, 
winking  and  coughing,  alternately  excited  laughter.  However, 
I  continued  with  my  natural  solemnity  to  read  on,  sensible  that 
what  I  did  might  mend  some,  but  could  itself  receive  no  con- 
tamination from  any. 

After  reading,  I  entered  upon  my  exhortation,  which  was 
rather  calculated  at  first  to  amuse  them  than  to  reprove.  I 
previously  observed,  that  no  other  motive  but  their  welfare 
could  induce  me  to  do  this ;  that  I  was  their  fellow-prisoner, 
and  now  got  nothing  by  preaching.  I  was  sorry,  I  said,  to  hear 
them  so  very  profane ;  because  they  got  nothing  by  it,  but  might 
lose  a  great  deal :  "  For  be  assured,  my  friends,"  °  cried  I,  —  "for 
you  are  my  friends,  however  the  world  may  disclaim  your  friend- 
ship, —  though  you  swore  twelve  thousand  oaths  in  a  day,  it 
would  not  put  one  penny  in  your  purse.  Then  what  signifies 
calling  every  moment  upon  the  devil,  and  courting  his  friendship, 
since  you  find  how  scurvlly  he  uses  you  ?  He  has  given  you 
nothing  here,  you  find,  but  a  mouthful  of  oaths  and  an  empty 
belly ;  and,  by  the  best  accounts  I  have  of  him,  he  will  give 
you  nothing  that's  good  hereafter. 

"  If  used  ill  in  our  dealings  with  one  man,  we  naturally  go 
elsewhere.  Were  it  not  worth  your  while,  then,  just  to  try 
how  you  may  like  the  usage  of  another  master,  who  gives  you 
fair  promises  at  least  to  come  to  him  1  Surely,  my  friends,  of 
all  stupidity  in  the  world,  his  must  be  the  greatest,  who,  after 
robbing  a  house,  runs  to  the  thief-takers  for  protection.  And 
yet,  how  are  you  more  wise  ?  You  are  all  seeking  comfort  from 


136  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

one  that  has  already  betrayed  you,  applying  to  a  more  malicious 
being  than  any  thief-taker  of  them  all ;  for  they  only  decoy  and 
then  hang  you ;  but  he  decoys  and  hangs,  and,  what  is  worst  of 
all,  will  not  let  you  loose  after  the  hangman  has  done." 

When  I  had  concluded,  I  received  the  compliments  of  my 
audience,  some  of  whom  came  and  shook  me  by  the  hand, 
swearing  that  I  was  a  very  honest  fellow,  and  that  they  desired 
my  further  acquaintance.  I  therefore  promised  to  repeat  my 
lecture  next  day,  and  actually  conceived  some  hopes  of  mak- 
ing a  reformation  here ;  for  it  had  ever  been  my  opinion,  that 
no  man  was  past  the  hour  of  amendment,  every  heart  lying  open 
to  the  shafts  of  reproof,  if  the  archer  could  but  take  a  proper  aim. 
When  I  had  thus  satisfied  my  mind,  I  went  back  to  my  apart- 
ment, where  my  wife  prepared  a  frugal  meal,  while  Mr.  Jenkin- 
son begged  leave  to  add  his  dinner  to  ours,  and  partake  of  the 
pleasure,  as  he  was  kind  enough  to  express  it,  of  my  conversa- 
tion. He  had  not  yet  seen  my  family ;  for  as  they  came  to  my 
apartment  by  a  door  in  the  narrow  passage  already  described, 
by  this  means  they  avoided  the  common  prison.  Jenkinson  at 
the  first  interview,  therefore,  seemed  not  a  little  struck  with  the 
beauty  of  my  youngest  daughter,  which  her  pensive  air  con- 
tributed to  heighten  ;  and  my  little  ones  did  not  pass  unnoticed. 

"Alas,  Doctor,"  cried  he,  "these  children  are  too  handsome 
and  too  good  for  such  a  place  as  this  ! " 

"Why,  Mr.  Jenkinson,"  replied  I,  "thank  Heaven,  my  chil- 
dren are  pretty  tolerable  in  morals;  and  if  they  be  good,  it 
matters  little  for  the  rest." 

"  I  fancy,  sir,"  returned  my  fellow-prisoner,  "  that  it  must 
give  you  great  comfort  to  have  all  this  little  family  about  you." 

"A  comfort,  Mr.  Jenkinson  !"  replied  I;  "yes,  it  is  indeed 
a  comfort,  and  I  would  not  be  without  them  for  all  the  world ; 
for  they  can  make  a  dungeon  seem  a  palace.  There  is  but  one 
way  in  this  life  of  wounding  my  happiness,  and  that  is  by 
injuring  them." 


REFORMATION  IN    THE    GAOL  137 

"  I  am  afraid  then,  sir,"  cried  he,  "  that  I  am  in  some  measure 
culpable ;  for  I  think  I  see  here  "  (looking  at  my  son  Moses) 
"one  that  I  have  injured,  and  by  whom  I  wish  to  be  forgiven." 

My  son  immediately  recollected  his  voice  and  features,  though 
he  had  before  seen  him  in  disguise,  and  taking  him  by  the  hand, 
with  a  smile,  forgave  him.  "  Yet,"  continued  he,  "  I  can't  help 
wondering  at  what  you  could  see  in  my  face,  to  think  me  a 
proper  mark  for  deception." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  returned  the  other,  "  it  was  not  your  face, 
but  your  white  stockings,  and  the  black  ribbon  in  your  hair, 
that  allured  me.  But,  no  disparagement  to  your  parts,  I  have 
deceived  wiser  men  than  you  in  my  time ;  and  yet,  with  all  my 
tricks,  the  blockheads  have  been  too  many  for  me  at  last." 

"  I  suppose,"  cried  my  son,  "that  the  narrative  of  such  a  life 
as  yours  must  be  extremely  instructive  and  amusing." 

"  Not  much  of  either,"  returned  Mr.  Jenkinson.  "  Those 
relations  which  describe  the  tricks  and  vices  only  of  mankind, 
by  increasing  our  suspicion  in  life,  retard  our  success.  The 
traveller  that  distrusts  every  person  he  meets,  and  turns  back 
upon  the  appearance  of  every  man  that  looks  like  a  robber, 
seldom  arrives  in  time  at  his  journey's  end. 

"  Indeed,  I  think,  from  my  own  experience,  that  the  know- 
ing one  is  the  silliest  fellow  under  the  sun.  I  was  thought 
cunning  from  my  very  childhood  :  when  but  seven  years  old,  the 
ladies  would  say  that  I  was  a  perfect  little  man :  at  fourteen,  I 
knew  the  world,  cocked  my  hat,  and  loved  the  ladies ;  .at  twenty, 
though  I  was  perfectly  honest,  yet  every  one  thought  me  so 
cunning,  that  not  one  would  trust  me.  Thus  I  was  at  last 
obliged  to  turn  sharper  in  my  own  defence,  and  have  lived  ever 
since,  my  head  throbbing  with  schemes  to  deceive,  and  my  heart 
palpitating  with  fears  of  detection.  I  used  often  to  laugh  at 
your  honest  simple  neighbour  Flamborough,  and,  one  way  or 
another,  generally  cheated  him  once  a  year.  Yet  still  the  honest 
man  went  forward  without  suspicion,  and  grew  rich,  while  I  still 


138  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

continued  tricksy  and  cunning,  and  was  poor,  without  the  con- 
solation of  being  honest.  However,"  continued  he,  "let  me 
know  your  case,  and  what  has  brought  you  here ;  perhaps, 
though  I  have  not  skill  to  avoid  a  gaol  myself,  I  may 
extricate  my  friends." 

In  compliance  with  his  curiosity,  I  informed  him  of  the  whole 
train  of  accidents  and  follies  that  had  plunged  me  into  my 
present  troubles,  and  my  utter  inability  to  get  free. 

After  hearing  my  story,  and  pausing  some  minutes,  he  slapped 
his  forehead,  as  if  he  had  hit  upon  something  material,  and 
took  his  leave,  saying,  he  would  try  what  could  be  done. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

The  same  Subject  continued 

THE  next  morning  I  communicated  to  my  wife  and  children 
the  scheme  I  had  planned  of  reforming  the  prisoners,  which  they 
received  with  universal  disapprobation,  alleging  the  impossibility 
and  impropriety  of  it ;  adding  that  my  endeavours  would  no  ' 
way  contribute  to  their  amendment,  but  might  probably  disgrace 
my  calling. 

"  Excuse  me,"  returned  I ;  "  these  people,  however  fallen,  are 
still  men  ;  and  that  is  a  very  good  title  to  my  affections.  Good 
counsel  rejected,  returns  to  enrich  the  giver's  bosom ;  and 
though  the  instruction  I  communicate  may  not  mend  them,  yet 
it  will  assuredly  mend  myself.  If  these  wretches,  my  children, 
were  princes,  there  would  be  thousands  ready  to  offer  their  min- 
istry •  but  in  my  opinion,  the  heart  that  is  buried  in  a  dungeon 
is  as  precious  as  that  seated  upon  a  throne.  Yes,  my  treasures, 
if  I  can  mend  them,  I  will :  perhaps  they  will  not  all  despise 
me.  Perhaps  I  may  catch  up  even  one  from  the  gulf,  and  that 
will  be  great  gain ;  for  is  there  upon  earth  a  gem  so  precious  as 
the  human  soul  ? " 


THE    SAME    SUBJECT    CONTINUED  139 

Thus  saying,  I  left  them,  and  descended  to  the  common 
prison,  where  I  found  the  prisoners  very  merry,  expecting  my 
arrival ;  and  each  prepared  with  some  gaol  trick  to  play  upon  the 
Doctor.  Thus,  as  I  was  going  to  begin,  one  turned  my  wig 
awry,  as  if  by  accident,  and  then  asked  my  pardon.  A  second, 
who  stood  at  some  distance,  had  a  knack  of  spitting  through 
his  teeth,  which  fell  in  showers  upon  my  book.  A  third  would 
cry  Amen  in  such  an  affected  tone  as  gave  the  rest  great  delight. 
A  fourth  had  slyly  picked  my  pocket  of  my  spectacles.  But 
there  was  one  whose  trick  gave  more  universal  pleasure  than  all 
the  rest;  for,  observing  the  manner  in  which  I  had  disposed 
my  books  on  the  table  before  me,  he  very  dexterously  displaced 
one  of  them,  and  put  an  obscene  jest-book  of  his  own  in  the 
place.  However,  I  took  no  notice  of  all  that  this  mischievous 
group  of  little  beings  could  do,  but  went  on,  perfectly  sensible 
that  what  was  ridiculous  in  my  attempt  would  excite  mirth 
only  the  first  or  second  time,  while  what  was  serious  would  be 
permanent.  My  design  succeeded,  and  in  less  than  six  days 
some  were  penitent,  and  all  attentive. 

It  was  now  that  I  applauded  my  perseverance  and  address,  at 
thus  giving  sensibility  to  wretches  divested  of  every  moral  feel- 
ing, and  now  began  to  think  of  doing  them  temporal  services 
also,  by  rendering  their  situation  somewhat  more  comfortable. 
Their  time  had  hitherto  been  divided  between  famine  and  excess, 
tumultuous  riot  and  bitter  repining.  Their  only  employment 
was  quarrelling  among  each  other,  playing  at  cribbage,  and  cut- 
ting tobacco-stoppers.  From  this  last  mode  of  idle  industry  I 
took  the  hint  of  setting  such  as  chose  to  work  at  cutting  pegs 
for  tobacconists  and  shoemakers,  the  proper  wood  being  bought 
by  a  general  subscription,  and,  when  manufactured,  sold  by  my 
appointment ;  so  that  each  earned  something  every  day  —  a 
trifle  indeed,  but  sufficient  to  maintain  him. 

I  did  not  stop  here,  but  instituted  fines  for  the  punishment 
of  immorality,  and  rewards  for  peculiar  industry.  Thus,  in  less 


140  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

than  a  fortnight  I  had  formed  them  into  something  social  and 
humane,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  regarding  myself  as  a  legisla- 
tor, who  had  brought  men  from  their  native  ferocity  into  friend- 
ship and  obedience. 

And  it  were  highly  to  be  wished,  that  legislative  power 
would  thus  direct  the  law  rather  to  reformation  than  severity  ;° 
that  it  would  seem  convinced  that  the  work  of  eradicating 
crimes  is  not  by  making  punishments  familiar,  but  formidable. 
Then,  instead  of  our  present  prisons,  which  find  or  make  men 
guilty,  which  enclose  wretches  for  the  commission  of  one  crime, 
and  return  them,  if  returned  alive,  fitted  for  the  perpetration  of 
thousands ;  we  should  see,  as  in  other  parts  of  Europe,  places 
of  penitence  and  solitude,  where  the  accused  might  be  attended 
by  such  as  could  give  them  repentance,  if  guilty,  or  new  motives 
to  virtue,  if  innocent.  And  this,  but  not  the  increasing  punish- 
ments, is  the  way  to  mend  a  State.  Nor  can  I  avoid  even 
questioning  the  validity  of  that  right  which  social  combinations 
have  assumed,  of  capitally  punishing  offences  of  a  slight  nature. 
In  cases  of  murder,  their  right  is  obvious,  as  it  is  the  duty  of 
us  all,  from  the  law  of  self-defence,  to  cut  off  that  man  who 
has  shown  a  disregard  for  the  life  of  another.  Against  such, 
all  nature  rises  in  arms ;  but  it  is  not  so  against  him  who  steals 
my  property.  Natural  law  gives  me  no  right  to  take  away  his 
life,  as  by  that,  the  horse  he  steals  is  as  much  his  property  as 
mine.  If,  then,  I  have  any  right,  it  must  be  from  a  compact 
made  between  us,  that  he  who  deprives  the  other  of  his  horse 
shall  die.  But  this  is  a  false  compact ;  because  no  man  has  a 
right  to  barter  his  life  any  more  than  to  take  it  away,  as  it  is 
not  his  own.  And  besides,  the  compact  is  inadequate,  and 
would  be  set  aside,  even  in  a  court  of  modern  equity,  as  there 
is  a  great  penalty  for  a  very  trifling  convenience,  since  it  is  far 
better  that  two  men  should  live  than  that  one  man  should  ride. 
But  a  compact  that  is  false  between  two  men,  is  equally  so  be- 
tween a  hundred  or  a  hundred  thousand;  for  as  ten  millions 


THE    SAME    SUBJECT    CONTINUED  141 

of  circles  can  never  make  a  square,  so  the  united  voice  of 
myriads  cannot  lend  the  smallest  foundation  to  falsehood.  It 
is  thus  that  reason  speaks,  and  untutored  nature  says  the  same 
thing.  Savages,  that  are  directed  by  natural  law  alone,  are 
very  tender  of  the  lives  of  each  other ;  they  seldom  shed  blood 
but  to  retaliate  former  cruelty. 

Our  Saxon  ancestors,  fierce  as  they  were  in  war,  had  but  few 
executions  in  times  of  peace ;  and,  in  all  commencing  govern- 
ments that  have  the  print  of  nature  still  strong  upon  them, 
scarce  any  crime  is  held  capital. 

It  is  among  the  citizens  of  a  refined  community  that  penal 
laws,  which  are  in  the  hands  of  the  rich,  are  laid  upon  the 
poor.  Government,  while  it  grows  older,  seems  to  acquire  the 
moroseness  of  age ;  and,  as  if  our  property  were  become  dearer 
in  proportion  as  it  increased  —  as  if  the  more  enormous  our 
wealth  the  more  extensive  our  fears  —  all  our  possessions 
are  paled  up  with  new  edicts  every  day,  and  hung  round  with 
gibbets  to  scare  every  invader. 

I  cannot  tell  whether  it  is  from  the  number  of  our  penal 
laws,  or  the  licentiousness  of  our  people,  that  this  country 
should  show  more  convicts  in  a  year  than  half  the  dominions 
of  Europe  united.  Perhaps  it  is  owing  to  both  ;  for  they  mutu- 
ally produce  each  other.  When,  by  indiscriminate  penal  laws, 
a  nation  beholds  the  same  punishment  affixed  to  dissimilar  de- 
grees of  guilt,  from  perceiving  no  distinction  in  the  penalty,  the 
people  are  led  to  lose  all  sense  of  distinction  in  the  crime,  and 
this  distinction  is  the  bulwark  of  all  morality :  thus  the  multi- 
tude of  laws  produce  new  vices,  and  new  vices  call  for  fresh 
restraints. 

It  were  to  be  wished,  then,  that  power,  instead  of  contriving 
new  laws  to  punish  vice ;  instead  of  drawing  hard  the  cords  of 
society  till  a  convulsion  come  to  burst  them ;  instead  of  cutting 
away  wretches  as  useless  before  we  have  tried  their  utility ;  in- 
stead of  converting  correction  into  vengeance,  —  it  were  to  be 


142  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

wished  that  we  tried  the  restrictive  arts  of  government,  and 
made  law  the  protector,  but  not  the  tyrant  of  the  people.  We 
should  then  find  that  creatures  whose  souls  are  held  as  dross, 
only  wanted  the  hand  of  a  refiner :  we  should  then  find  that 
creatures  now  stuck  up  for  long  tortures,  lest  luxury  should 
feel  a  momentary  pang,  might,  if  properly  treated,  serve  to  sinew 
the  state  in  times  of  danger ;  that  as  their  faces  are  like  ours, 
their  hearts  are  so  too ;  that  few  minds  are  so  base  as  that  per- 
severance cannot  amend ;  that  a  man  may  see  his  last  crime 
without  dying  for  it ;  and  that  very  little  blood  will  serve  to 
cement  our  security. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

Happiness  and  Misery  rather  the  Result  of  Prudence  than  of  Vir- 
tue in  this  Life',  Temporal  Evils  or  Felicities  being  regarded 
by  Heaven  as  Things  merely  in  themselves  trifling,  and  unworthy 
its  Care  in  the  Distribution 

I  HAD  now  been  confined  more  than  a  fortnight,  but  had  not 
since  my  arrival  been  visited  by  my  dear  Olivia,  and  I  greatly 
longed  to  see  her.  Having  communicated  my  wishes  to  my 
wife,  the  next  morning  the  poor  girl  entered  my  apartment,  lean- 
ing on  her  sister's  arm.  The  change  which  I  saw  in  her  counte- 
nance struck  me.  The  numberless  graces  that  once  resided  there 
were  now  fled,  and  the  hand  of  death  seemed  to  have  moulded 
every  feature  to  alarm  me.  Her  temples  were  sunk,  her  fore- 
head was  tense,  and  a  fatal  paleness  sat  upon  her  cheek. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  thee,  my  dear,"  cried  I;  "but  why  this 
dejection,  Livy  1  I  hope,  my  love,  you  have  too  great  a  regard 
for  me  to  permit  disappointment  thus  to  undermine  a  life  which 
I  prize  as  my  own.  Be  cheerful,  child,  and  we  may  yet  see 
happier  days." 


HAPPINESS    AND    MISERY  143 

"You  have  ever,  sir,"  replied  she,  "been  kind  to  me,  and  it 
adds  to  my  pain  that  I  shall  never  have  an  opportunity  of  shar- 
ing that  happiness  you  promise.  Happiness,  I  fear,  is  no  longer 
reserved  for  me  here ;  and  I  long  to  be  rid  of  a  place  where  I 
have  only  found  distress.  Indeed,  sir,  I  wish  you  would  make 
a  proper  submission  to  Mr.  Thornhill ;  it  may  in  some  measure 
induce  him  to  pity  you,  and  it  will  give  me  relief  in  dying." 

"Never,  child,"  replied  I :  "never  will  I  be  brought  to  ac- 
knowledge my  daughter  a  prostitute ;  for  though  the  world  may 
look  upon  your  offence  with  scorn,  let  it  be  mine  to  regard  it  as 
a  mark  of  credulity,  not  of  guilt.  My  dear,  I  am  no  way  misera- 
ble in  this  place,  however  dismal  it  may  seem ;  and  be  assured, 
that  while  you  continue  to  bless  me  by  living,  he  shall  never 
have  my  consent  to  make  you  more  wretched  by  marrying 
another." 

After  the  departure  of  my  daughter,  my  fellow-prisoner,  who 
was  by  at  this  interview,  sensibly  enough  expostulated  on  my 
obstinacy  in  refusing  a  submission  which  promised  to  give  me 
freedom.  He  observed,  that  the  rest  of  my  family  was  not  to 
be  sacrificed  to  the  peace  of  one  child  alone,  and  she  the  only 
one  who  had  offended  me.  " Besides,"  added  he,  "I  don't  know 
if  it  be  just  thus  to  obstruct  the  union  of  man  and  wife,  which 
you  do  at  present,  by  refusing  to  consent  to  a  match  you  cannot 
hinder,  but  may  render  unhappy." 

"  Sir,"  replied  I,  "  you  are  unacquainted  with  the  man  that 
oppresses  us.  I  am  very  sensible  that  no  submission  I  can 
make  could  procure  me  liberty  even  for  an  hour.  I  am  told 
that  even  in  this  very  room  a  debtor  of  his,  no  later  than  last 
year,  died  for  want.  But  though  my  submission  and  approba- 
tion could  transfer  me  from  hence  to  the  most  beautiful  apartment 
he  is  possessed  of,  yet  I  would  grant  neither,  as  something 
whispers  me  that  it  would  be  giving  a  sanction  to  adultery. 
While  my  daughter  lives,  no  other  marriage  of  his  shall  ever  be 
legal  in  my  eye.  Were  she  removed,  indeed,  I  should  be  the 


144  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

basest  of  men,  from  any  resentment  of  my  own,  to  attempt 
putting  asunder  those  who  wish  for  a  union.  No,  villain  as  he 
is,  I  should  then  wish  him  married,  to  prevent  the  consequences 
of  his  future  debaucheries.  But  now,  should  I  not  be  the  most 
cruel  of  all  fathers  to  sign  an  instrument  which  must  send  my 
child  to  the  grave,  merely  to  avoid  a  prison  myself;  and  thus, 
to  escape  one  pang,  break  my  child's  heart  with  a  thousand  ? " 

He  acquiesced  in  the  justice  of  this  answer,  but  could  not 
avoid  observing,  that  he  feared  my  daughter's  life  was  already 
too  much  wasted  to  keep  me  long  a  prisoner.  "  However," 
continued  he,  "  though  you  refuse  to  submit  to  the  nephew,  I 
hope  you  have  no  objections  to  laying  your  case  before  the  uncle, 
who  has  the  first  character  in  the  kingdom  for  everything  that 
is  just  and  good.  I  would  advise  you  to  send  him  a  letter  by 
the  post,  intimating  all  his  nephew's  ill-usage ;  and  my  life  for 
it,  that  in  three  days  you  shall  have  an  answer."  I  thanked 
him  for  the  hint,  and  instantly  set  about  complying;  but  I 
wanted  paper,  and  unluckily  all  our  money  had  been  laid  out 
that  morning  in  provisions  :  however,  he  supplied  me. 

For  the  three  ensuing  days  I  was  in  a  state  of  anxiety  to 
know  what  reception  my  letter  might  meet  with ;  but  in  the 
meantime  was  frequently  solicited  by  my  wife  to  submit  to  any 
conditions  rather  than  remain  here,  and  every  hour  received  re- 
peated accounts  of  the  decline  of  my  daughter's  health.  The 
third  day  and  the  fourth  arrived,  but  I  received  no  answer  to 
my  letter :  the  complaints  of  a  stranger  against  a  favourite 
nephew  were  no  way  likely  to  succeed;  so  that  these  hopes 
soon  vanished  like  all  my  former.  My  mind,  however,  still 
supported  itself,  though  confinement  and  bad  air  began  to  make 
a  visible  alteration  in  my  health,  and  my  arm  that  had  suffered 
in  the  fire  grew  worse.  My  children,  however,  sat  by  me,  and 
while  I  was  stretched  on  my  straw,  read  to  me  by  turns,  or 
listened  and  wept  at  my  instructions.  But  my  daughter's 
health  declined  faster  than  mine  :  every  message  from  her  con- 


HAPPINESS    AND    MISERY  145 

tributed  to  increase  my  apprehensions  and  pain.  The  fifth 
morning  after  I  had  written  the  letter  which  was  sent  to  Sir 
William  Thornhill,  I  was  alarmed  with  an  account  that  she 
was  speechless.  Now  it  was  that  confinement  was  truly  pain- 
ful to  me  ;  my  soul  was  bursting  from  its  prison  to  be  near  the 
pillow  of  my  child,  to  comfort,  to  strengthen  her,  to  receive  her 
last  wishes,  and  teach  her  soul  the  way  to  Heaven  !  Another 
account  came :  she  was  expiring,  and  yet  I  was  debarred  the 
small  comfort  of  weeping  by  her.  My  fellow-prisoner,  some 
time  after,  came  with  the  last  account.  He  bade  me  be  patient : 
she  was  dead  !  —  The  next  morning  he  returned,  and  found  me 
with  my  two  little  ones,  now  my  only  companions,  who  were 
using  all  their  innocent  efforts  to  comfort  me.  They  entreated 
to  read  to  me,  and  bade  me  not  to  cry,  for  I  was  now  too  old 
to  weep.  "And  is  not  my  sister  an  angel,  now,  papa?"  cried 
the  eldest ;  "  and  why,  then,  are  you  sorry  for  her  ?  I  wish  I 
were  an  angel  out  of  this  frightful  place,  if  my  papa  were  with 
me."  —  "Yes,"  added  my  youngest  darling,  "Heaven,  where 
my  sister  is,  is  a  finer  place  than  this,  and  there  are  none  but 
good  people  there,  and  the  people  here  are  very  bad." 

Mr.  Jenkinson  interrupted  their  harmless  prattle  by  observing, 
that  now  my  daughter  was  no  more,  I  should  seriously  think  of 
the  rest  of  my  family,  and  attempt  to  save  my  own  life,  which 
was  every  day  declining  for  want  of  necessaries  and  wholesome 
air.  He  added,  that  it  was  now  incumbent  on  me  to  sacrifice 
any  pride  or  resentment  of  my  own  to  the  welfare  of  those  who 
depended  on  me  for  support ;  and  that  I  was  now,  both  by  rea- 
son and  justice,  obliged  to  try  to  reconcile  my  landlord. 

"Heaven  be  praised,"  replied  I,  "there  is  no  pride  left  me 
now  :  I  should  detest  my  own  heart  if  I  saw  either  pride  or  re- 
sentment lurking  there.  On  the  contrary,  as  my  oppressor  has 
been  once  my  parishioner,  I  hope  one  day  to  present  him  up  an 
unpolluted  soul  at  the  eternal  tribunal.  No,  sir,  I  have  no  re- 
sentment now ;  and  though  he  has  taken  from  me  what  I  held 


146  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

dearer  than  all  his  treasures,  though  he  has  wrung  my  heart,  — 
for  I  am  sick  almost  to  fainting,  very  sick,  my  fellow-prisoner, 
—  yet  that  shall  never  inspire  me  with  vengeance.  I  am  now 
willing  to  approve  his  marriage  :  and,  if  this  submission  can  do 
him  any  pleasure,  let  him  know  that  if  I  have  done  him  any  in- 
jury I  am  sorry  for  it." 

Mr.  Jenkinson  took  pen  and  ink,  and  wrote  down  my  submis- 
sion nearly  as  I  have  expressed  it,  to  which  I  signed  my  name. 
My  son  was  employed  to  carry  the  letter  to  Mr.  Thornhill,  who 
was  then  at  his  seat  in  the  countiy.  He  went,  and,  in  about 
six  hours,  returned  with  a  verbal  answer.  He  had  some  diffi- 
culty, he  said,  to  get  a  sight  of  his  landlord,  as  the  servants 
were  insolent  and  suspicious :  but  he  accidentally  saw  him  as 
he  was  going  out  upon  business,  preparing  for  his  marriage, 
which  was  to  be  in  three  days.  He  continued  to  inform  us,  that 
he  stept  up  in  the  humblest  manner,  and  delivered  the  letter, 
which,  when  Mr.  Thornhill  had  read,  he  said  that  all  submis- 
sion was  now  too  late  and  unnecessary ;  that  he  heard  of  our 
application  to  his  uncle,  which  met  with  the  contempt  it  de- 
served ;  and,  as  for  the  rest,  that  all  future  applications  should 
be  .directed  to  his  attorney,  not  to  him.  He  observed,  however, 
that  as  he  had  a  very  good  opinion  of  the  discretion  of  the  two 
young  ladies,  they  might  have  been  the  most  agreeable  inter- 
cessors. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  I  to  my  fellow-prisoner,  "you  now  discover 
the  temper  of  the  man  that  oppresses  me.  He  can  at  once  be 
facetious  and  cruel :  but,  let  him  use  me  as  he  will,  I  shall  soon 
be  free  in  spite  of  all  his  bolts  to  restrain  me.  I  am  now  draw- 
ing towards  an  abode  that  looks  brighter  as  I  approach  it :  this 
expectation  cheers  my  afflictions,  and  though  I  leave  an  helpless 
family  of  orphans  behind  me,  yet  they  will  not  be  utterly  for- 
saken :  some  friend,  perhaps,  will  be  found  to  assist  them  for 
the  sake  of  their  poor  father,  and  some  may  charitably  relieve 
them  for  the  sake  of  their  heavenly  Father," 


HAPPINESS    AND    MISERY  147 

Just  as  I  spoke,  my  wife,  whom  I  had  not  seen  that  day  be- 
fore, appeared  with  looks  of  terror,  and  making  efforts,  but 
unable,  to  speak.  "Why,  my  love,"  cried  I,  "why  will  you 
thus  increase  my  afflictions  by  your  own  ?  What  though  no  sub- 
missions can  turn  our  severe  master,  though  he  has  doomed  me 
to  die  in  this  place  of  wretchedness,  and  though  we  have  lost  a 
darling  child,  yet  still  you  will  find  comfort  in  your  other  chil- 
dren when  I  shall  be  no  more."  —  "We  have  indeed  lost," 
returned  she,  "  a  darling  child.  My  Sophia,  my  dearest  is  gone  ! 
snatched  from  us,  carried  off  by  ruffians  ! "  —  "  How,  madam," 
cried  my  fellow-prisoner,  "  Miss  Sophia  carried  off  by  villains ; 
sure  it  cannot  be  1 " 

She  could  only  answer  by  a  fixed  look,  and  a  flood  of  tears. 
But  one  of  the  prisoners'  wives  who  was  present,  and  came  in 
with  her,  gave  us  a  more  distinct  account :  she  informed  us, 
that  as  my  wife,  my  daughter,  and  herself  were  taking  a  walk 
together  on  the  great  road,  a  little  way  out  of  the  village,  a 
post-chaise  and  pair  drove  up  to  them,  and  instantly  stopped ; 
upon  which  a  well-dressed  man,  but  not  Mr.  Thornhill,  stepping 
out,  clasped  my  daughter  round  the  waist,  and  forcing  her  in, 
bade  the  postilion  drive  on,  so  that  they  were  out  of  sight  in  a 
moment. 

"  Now,"  cried  I,  "  the  sum  of  my  miseries  is  made  up,  nor  is 
it  in  the  power  of  anything  on  earth  to  give  me  another  pang. 
What !  not  one  left !  —  not  to  leave  me  one  !  —  The  monster  ! 
—  the  child  that  was  next  my  heart !  —  she  had  the  beauty  of 
an  angel,  and  almost  the  wisdom  of  an  angel.  —  But  support 
that  woman,  nor  let  her  fall.  —  Not  to  leave  me  one  ! " 

"Alas!  my  husband,"  said  my  wife,  "you  seem  to  want 
comfort  even  more  than  I.  Our  distresses  are  great,  but  I 
could  bear  this  and  more,  if  I  saw  you  but  easy.  They  may 
take  away  my  children  and  all  the  world,  if  they  leave  me  but 
you." 

My  son,  who  was  present,  endeavoured  to  moderate  our  grief; 


148  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

he  bade  us  take  comfort,  for  he  hoped  that  we  might  still  have 
reason  to  be  thankful.  "My  child,"  cried  I,  "look  round  the 
world,  and  see  if  there  be  any  happiness  left  me  now.  Is  not 
every  ray  of  comfort  shut  out,  while  all  our  bright  prospects 
only  lie  beyond  the  grave  ? "  —  "  My  dear  father,"  returned  he, 
"  I  hope  there  is  still  something  that  will  give  you  an  interval 
of  satisfaction  ;  for  I  have  a  letter  from  my  brother  George. "- 
"  What  of  him,  child  ! "  interrupted  I ;  "  does  he  know  our 
misery  ?  I  hope  my  boy  is  exempt  from  any  part  of  what  his 
wretched  family  suffers ?"•  — " Yes,  sir,"  returned  he,  "he  is 
perfectly  gay,  cheerful,  and  happy.  His  letter  brings  nothing 
but  good  news  ;  he  is  the  favourite  of  his  colonel,  who  promises 
to  procure  him  the  very  next  lieutenancy  that  becomes  vacant." 
"And  are  you  sure  of  all  this?"  cried  my  wife:  "are  you 
sure  that  nothing  ill  has  befallen  my  boy  ?  "  —  "  Nothing,  indeed, 
madam,"  returned  my  son ;  "  you  shall  see  the  letter,  which  will 
give  you  the  highest  pleasure ;  and  if  anything  can  procure  you 
comfort,  I  am  sure  that  will." —  "But  are  you  sure,"  still  re- 
peated she,  "that  the  letter  is  from  himself,  and  that  he  is 
really  so  happy  ? " -  —  "  Yes,  madam,"  replied  he,  "it  is  certainly 
his,  and  he  will  one  day  be  the  credit  and  support  of  our  family." 
—  "Then,  I  thank  Providence,"  cried  she,  "that  my  last  letter 
to  him  has  miscarried.  Yes,  my  dear,"  continued  she,  turning 
to  me,  "  I  will  now  confess,  that  though  the  hand  of  Heaven  is 
sore  upon  us  in  other  instances,  it  has  been  favourable  here. 
By  the  last  letter  I  wrote  my  son,  which  was  in  the  bitterness 
of  anger,  I  desired  him,  upon  his  mother's  blessing,  and  if  he 
had  the  heart  of  a  man,  to  see  justice  done  his  father  and  sister, 
and  avenge  our  cause.  But,  thanks  be  to  Him  that  directs  all 
things,  it  has  miscarried,  and  I  am  at  rest."  —  "Woman!" 
cried  I,  "  thou  hast  done  very  ill,  and  at  another  time,  my  re- 
proaches might  have  been  more  severe.  Oh  !  what  a  tremen- 
dous gulf  thou  hast  escaped,  that  would  have  buried  both  thee 
and  him  in  endless  ruin  !  Providence,  indeed,  has  here  been 


HAPPINESS    AND    MISERY.  149 

kinder  to  us  than  we  to  ourselves.  It  has  reserved  that  son  to 
be  the  father  and  protector  of  my  children  when  I  shall  be  away. 
How  unjustly  did  I  complain  of  being  stripped  of  every  comfort, 
when  still  I  hear  that  he  is  happy,  and  insensible  of  our  afflic- 
tions ;  still  kept  in  reserve  to  support  his  widowed  mother,  and 
to  protect  his  brothers  and  sisters  !  But  what  sisters  has  he 
left  ?  He  has  no  sisters  now :  they  are  all  gone,  robbed  from 
me,  and  I  am  undone." — "Father,"  interrupted  my  son,  "I 
beg  you  will  give  me  leave  to  read  his  letter  —  I  know  it  will 
please  you."  Upon  which,  with  my  permission,  he  read  as 
follows : 

HONOURED  SIR,°  —  I  have  called  off  my  imagination  a  few 
moments  from  the  pleasures  that  surround  me,  to  fix  it  upon 
objects  that  are  still  more  pleasing,  —  the  dear  little  fireside  at 
home.  My  fancy  draws  that  harmless  group,  as  listening  to 
every  line  of  this  with  great  composure.  I  view  those  faces 
with  delight,  which  never  felt  the  deforming  hand  of  ambition 
or  distress  !  But,  whatever  your  happiness  may  be  at  home,  I 
am  sure  it  will  be  some  addition  to  it  to  hear,  that  I  am  per- 
fectly pleased  with  my  situation,  and  every  way  happy  here. 

Our  regiment  is  countermanded,  and  is  not  to  leave  the  king- 
dom. The  colonel,  who  professes  himself  my  friend,  takes  me 
with  him  to  all  companies  where  he  is  acquainted,  and,  after  my 
first  visit,  I  generally  find  myself  received  with  increased  respect 

upon  repeating  it.  I  danced  last  night  with  Lady  G ,  and, 

could  I  forget  you  know  whom,  I  might  be  perhaps  successful. 
But  it  is  my  fate  still  to  remember  others,  while  I  am  myself 
forgotten  by  most  of  my  absent  friends ;  and  in  this  number,  I 
fear,  sir,  that  I  must  consider  you;  for  I  have  long  expected 
the  pleasure  of  a  letter  from  home,  to  no  purpose.  Olivia  and 
Sophia  too  promised  to  write,  but  seem  to  have  forgotten  me. 
Tell  them  they  are  two  arrant  little  baggages,  and  that  I  am, 
at  this  moment,  in  a  most  violent  passion  with  them ;  yet  still, 


150  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

I  know  not  how,  though  I  want  to  bluster  a  little,  my  heart  is 
respondent  only  to  softer  emotions.  Then,  tell  them,  sir,  that, 
after  all,  I  love  them  affectionately ;  and  be  assured  of  my  ever 
remaining 

Your  dutiful  Son. 

"In  all  our  miseries,"  cried  I,  "what  thanks  have  we  not  to 
return,  that  one  at  least  of  our  family  is  exempted  from  what 
we  suffer  !  Heaven  be  his  guard,  and  keep  my  boy  thus  happy, 
to  be  the  support  of  his  widowed  mother,  and  the  father  of  these 
two  babes,  which  is  all  the  patrimony  I  can  now  bequeath  him ! 
May  he  keep  their  innocence  from  the  temptations  of  want,  and 
be  their  conductor  in  the  paths  of  honour  ! "  I  had  scarce  said 
these  words,  when  a  noise  like  that  of  a  tumult  seemed  to  pro- 
ceed from  the  prison  below :  it  died  away  soon  after,  and  a 
clanking  of  fetters  was  heard  along  the  passage  that  led  to  my 
apartment.  The  keeper  of  the  prison  entered,  holding  a  man 
all  bloody,  wounded,  and  fettered  with  the  heaviest  irons.  I 
looked  with  compassion  on  the  wretch  as  he  approached  me, 
but  with  horror,  when  I  found  it  was  my  own  son.  "  My  George  ! 
my  George  !  and  do  I  behold  thee  thus  1  Wounded  —  fettered  ! 
Is  this  thy  happiness  1  is  this  the  manner  you  return  to  me  ? 
Oh  that  this  sight  could  break  my  heart  at  once,  and  let  me 
die!" 

"  Where,  sir,  is  your  fortitude  ? "  returned  my  son,  with  an 
intrepid  voice.  "I  must  suffer;  my  life  is  forfeited,  and  let 
them  take  it." 

I  tried  to  restrain  my  passions  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence, 
but  I  thought  I  should  have  died  with  the  effort.  —  "  Oh,  my 
boy,  my  heart  weeps  to  behold  thee  thus,  and  I  cannot,  cannot 
help  it.  In  the  moment  that  I  thought  thee  blest,  and  prayed 
for  thy  safety,  to  behold  thee  thus  again  !  Chained  —  wounded ; 
and  yet  the  death  of  the  youthful  is  happy.  But  I  am  old, 
a  very  old  man,  and  have  lived  to  see  this  day !  To  see  my 


HAPPINESS    AND    MISERY  151 

children  all  untimely  falling  about  me,  while  I  continue  a  wretched 
survivor  in  the  midst  of  ruin !  May  all  the  curses  that  ever 
sunk  a  soul  fall  heavy  upon  the  murderer  of  my  children  ! 
May  he  live,  like  me,  to  see " 

"  Hold,  sir ! "  replied  my  son,  "  or  I  shall  blush  for  thee. 
How,  sir  !  forgetful  of  yaur  age,  your  holy  calling,  thus  to  arro- 
gate the  justice  of  Heaven,  and  fling  those  curses  upward  that 
must  soon  descend  to  crush  thy  own  grey  head  with  destruction  ! 
No,  sir,  let  it  be  your  care  now  to  fit  me  for  that  vile  death  I 
must  shortly  suffer  !  to  arm  me  with  hope  and  resolution !  to 
give  me  courage  to  drink  of  that  bitterness  which  must  shortly 
be  my  portion." 

"  My  child,  you  must  not  die  :  I  am  sure  no  offence  of  thine 
can  deserve  so  vile  a  punishment.  My  George  could  never  be 
guilty  of  any  crime  to  make  his  ancestors  ashamed  of  him." 

"Mine,  sir,"  returned  my  son,  "is,  I  fear,  an  unpardonable 
one.  When  I  received  my  mother's  letter  from  home,  I  im- 
mediately came  down,  determined  to  punish  the  betrayer  of  our 
honour,  and  sent  him  an  order  to  meet  me,  which  he  answered, 
not  in  person,  but  by  despatching  four  of  his  domestics  to  seize 
me.  I  wounded  one  who  first  assaulted  me,  and  I  fear  desper- 
ately; but  the  rest  made  me  their  prisoner.  The  coward  is 
determined  to  put  the  law  in  execution  against  me ;  the  proofs 
are  undeniable ;  I  have  sent  a  challenge,  and  as  I  am  the  first 
transgressor  upon  the  statute,0  I  see  no  hopes  of  pardon.  But 
you  have  often  charmed  me  with  your  lessons  of  fortitude,  let 
me  now,  sir,  find  them  in  your  example." 

"And,  my  son,  you  shall  find  them.  I  am  now  raised  above 
this  world,  and  all  the  pleasures  it  can  produce.  From  this 
moment  I  break  from  my  heart  all  the  ties  that  held  it  down 
to  earth,  and  will  prepare  to  fit  us  both  for  eternity.  Yes,  my 
son,  I  will  point  out  the  way,  and  my  soul  shall  guide  yours  in 
the  ascent,  for  we  will  take  our  flight  together.  I  now  see,  and 
am  convinced,  you  can  expect  no  pardon  here ;  and  I  can  only 


152  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

exhort  you  to  seek  it  at  that  greatest  tribunal  where  we  both 
shall  shortly  answer.  But  let  us  not  be  niggardly  in  our  ex- 
hortation, but  let  all  our  fellow-prisoners  have  a  share.  Gooct 
gaoler,  let  them  be  permitted  to  stand  here  while  I  attempt  to 
improve  them."  Thus  saying,  I  made  an  effort  to  rise  from  my 
straw,  but  wanted  strength,  and  was  able  only  to  recline  against 
the  wTall.  The  prisoners  assembled  themselves  according  to  my 
directions,  for  they  loved  to  hear  my  counsel :  my  son  and  his 
mother  supported  me  on  either  side ;  I  looked  and  saw  that 
none  were  wanting,  and  then  addressed  them  with  the  following 
exhortation. 

CHAPTER  XXIX 

The  equal  Dealings  of  Providence  demonstrated  with  regard  to  the 
Happy  and  the  Miserable  here  below.  That,  from  the  Nature  of 
Pleasure  and  Pain,  the  Wretched  must  be  paid  the  Balance  of 
their  Sufferings  in  the  Life  hereafter 

"  MY  friends,  my  children,  and  fellow-sufferers,  when  I  reflect 
on  the  distribution  of  good  and  evil  here  below,  I  find  that  much 
has  been  given  man  to  enjoy,  yet  still  more  to  suffer.  Though 
we  should  examine  the  whole  world,  we  shall  not  find  one  man 
so  happy  as  to  have  nothing  left  to  wish  for ;  but  we  daily  see 
thousands  who  by  suicide  show  us  they  have  nothing  left  to 
hope.  In  this  life,  then,  it  appears  that  we  cannot  be  entirely 
blest,  but  yet  we  may  be  completely  miserable. 

"Why  man  should  thus  feel  pain;  why  our  wretchedness 
should  be  requisite  in  the  formation  of  universal  felicity  ;  why, 
when  all  other  systems  are  made  perfect  by  the  perfection  of 
their  subordinate  parts,  the  great  system  should  require  for  its 
perfection  parts  that  are  not  only  subordinate  to  others,  but  im- 
perfect in  themselves  —  these  are  questions  that  never  can  be 
explained,  and  might  be  useless  if  known.  On  this  subject, 


PROVIDENCE    VINDICATED  153 

Providence  has  thought  fit  to  elude  our  curiosity,  satisfied  with 
granting  us  motives  to  consolation. 

"  In  this  situation  man  has  called  in  the  friendly  assistance 
of  philosophy;  and  Heaven,  seeing  the  incapacity  of  that  to 
console  him,  has  given  him  the  aid  of  religion.  The  consola- 
tions of  philosophy  are  very  amusing,  but  often  fallacious;  it 
tells  us  that  life  is  filled  with  comforts,  if  we  wilPBu%  "enjoy 
them ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  that  though  we  unavoidably 
have  miseries  here,  life  is  short,  and  they  will  soon  be  over. 
Thus  do  these  consolations  destroy  each  other ;  for,  if  life  is  a 
place  of  comfort,  its  shortness  must  be  misery,  and  if  it  be  long, 
our  griefs  are  protracted.  Thus  philosophy  is  weak :  but  re- 
ligion comforts  in  a  higher  strain.  Man  is  here,  it  tells  us, 
fitting  up  his  mind,  and  preparing  it  for  another  abode.  When 
the  good  man  leaves  the  body,  and  is  all  a  glorious  mind,  he  will 
find  he  has  been  making  himself  a  heaven  of  happiness  here ; 
while  the  wretch  that  has  been  maimed  and  contaminated  by 
his  vices,  shrinks  from  his  body  with  terror,  and  finds  that  he 
has  anticipated  the  vengeance  of  Heaven.  To  religion,  then, 
we  must  hold,  in  every  circumstance  of  life,  for  our  truest  com- 
fort :  for  if  already  we  are  happy,  it  is  #  pleasure  to  think  that 
we  can  make  that  happiness  unending;  and  if  we  are  miserable, 
it  is  very  consoling  to  think  that  there  is  a  place  of  rest.  Thus, 
to  the  fortunate,  religion  holds  out  a  continuance  of  bliss ;  to  the 
wretched,  a  change  from  pain. 

"  But  though  religion  is  very  kind  to  all  men,  it  has  promised 
peculiar  rewards  to  the  unhappy  :  the  sick,  the  naked,  the  house- 
less, the  heavy-laden,  and  the  prisoner,  have  ever  most  frequent 
promises  in  our  sacred  law.  The  Author  of  our  religion  every- 
where professes  himself  the  wretch's  friend,  and,  unlike  the  false 
ones  of  this  world,  bestows  all  his  caresses  upon  the  forlorn. 
The  unthinking  have  censured  this  as  partiality,  as  a  preference 
without  merit  to  deserve  it.  But  they  never  reflect,  that  it  is 
not  in  the  power  even  of  Heaven  itself  to  make  the  offer  of 


154  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

unceasing  felicity  as  great  a  gift  to  the  happy  as  to  the  misera- 
ble.    To  the  first,  eternity  is  but  a  single  blessing,  since  at 
most  it  but  increases  what  they  already  possess.     To  the  latter,  vj 
it  is  a  double  advantage;  for  it  diminishes  their  pain  here,  and 
rewards  them  with  heavenly  bliss  hereafter. 

"But  Providence  is  in  another  respect  kinder  to  the  poor 
than  to  the  rich ;  for  as  it  thus  makes  the  life  after  death  more 
desirable,  so  it  smooths  the  passage  there.  The  wretched  have 
had  a  long  familiarity  with  every  face  of  terror.  The  man  of 
sorrows  lays  himself  quietly  down,  without  possessions  to  regret, 
and  but  few  ties  to  stop  his  departure :  he  feels  only  nature's 
pang  in  the  final  separation,  and  this  is  no  way  greater  than  he 
has  often  fainted  under  before ;  for,  after  a  certain  degree  of 
pain,  every  new  breach  that  death  opens  in  the  constitution 
nature  kindly  covers  with  insensibility. 

"  Thus  Providence  has  given  the  wretched  two  advantages 
over  the  happy  in  this  life,  — greater  felicity  in  dying,  and  in 
heaven  all  that  superiority  of  pleasure  which  arises  from  con- 
trasted enjoyment.  And  this  superiority,  my  friends,  is  no 
small  advantage,  and  seems  to  be  one  of  the  pleasures  of  the 
poor  man  in  the  parable ;  for  though  he  was  already  in  heaven, 
and  felt  all  the  raptures  it  could  give,  yet  it  was  mentioned  as 
an  addition  to  his  happiness,  that  he  had  once  been  wretched, 
and  now  was  comforted ;  that  he  had  known  what  it  was  to  be 
miserable,  and  now  felt  what  it  was  to  be  happy. 

"Thus,  my  friends,  you  see  religion  does  what  philosophy 
could  never  do :  it  shows  the  equal  dealings  of  Heaven  to  the 
happy  and  the  unhappy,  and  levels  all  human  enjoyments  to 
nearly  the  same  standard.  It  gives  to  both  rich  and  poor  the 
same  happiness  hereafter,  and  equal  hopes  to  aspire  after  it ; 
but  if  the  rich  have  the  advantage  of  enjoying  pleasure  here, 
the  poor  have  the  endless  satisfaction  of  knowing  what  it  was 
once  to  be  miserable,  when  crowned  with  endless  felicity  here- 
after ;  and  even  though  this  should  be  called  a  small  advantage, 


PROVIDENCE    VINDICATED  155 

yet,  being  an  eternal  one,  it  must  make  up  by  duration  what 
the  temporal  happiness  of  the  great  may  have  exceeded  by  in- 
tenseness. 

"These  are,  therefore,  the  consolations  which  the  wretched 
have  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  in  which  they  are  above  the 
rest  of  mankind  :  in  other  respects,  they  are  below  them.  They 
who  would  know  the  miseries  of  the  poor,  must  see  life  and 
endure  it.  To  declaim  on  the  temporal  advantages  they  enjoy, 
is  only  repeating  what  none  either  believe  or  practise.  The 
men  who  have  the  necessaries  of  living,  are  not  poor ;  and  they 
who  want  them,  must  be  miserable.  Yes,  my  friends,  we  must 
be  miserable.  No  vain  efforts  of  a  refined  imagination  can 
soothe  the  wants  of  nature,  can  give  elastic  sweetness  to  the 
dank  vapour  of  a  dungeon,  or  ease  to  the  throbbings  of  a 
broken  heart.  Let  the  philosopher  from  his  couch  of  softness  . 
tell  us  that  we  can  resist  all  these  :  alas  !  the  effort  by  which 
we  resist  them  is  still  the  greatest  pain.  Death  is  slight,  and 
any  man  may  sustain  it ;  but  torments  are  dreadful,  and  these  "* 
no  man  can  endure. 

"  To  us  then,  my  friends,  the  promises  of  happiness  in  heaven 
should  be  peculiarly  dear;  for  if  our  reward  be  in  this  life 
alone,  we  are  then,  indeed,  of  all  men  the  most  miserable. 
When  I  look  round  these  gloomy  walls,  made  to  terrify  as 
well  as  to  confine  us ;  this  light,  that  only  serves  to  show  the 
horrors  of  the  place ;  those  shackles,  that  tyranny  has  imposed, 
or  crime  made  necessary ;  when  I  survey  these  emaciated  looks, 
and  hear  those  groans — oh,  my  friends,  what  a  glorious  ex-  ^ 
change  would  heaven  be  for  these  !  To  fly  through  regions  un- 
confmed  as  air  —  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  eternal  bliss  —  to 
carol  over  endless  hymns  of  praise  —  to  have  no  master  to 
threaten  or  insult  us,  but  the  form  of  Goodness  himself  for 
ever  in  our  eyes !  —  when  I  think  of  these  things,  death  be- 
comes the  messenger  of  very  glad  tidings ;  when  I  think  of 
these  things,  his  sharpest  arrow  becomes  the  staff  of  my  sup- 


156  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

port ;  when  I  think  of  these  things,  what  is  there  in  life  worth 
having  1  when  I  think  of  these  things,  what  is  there  that  should 
not  be  spurned  away?  kings  in  their  palaces  should  groan  for 
such  advantages ;  but  we,  humbled  as  we  are,  should  yearn  for 
them. 

"  And  shall  these  things  be  ours  ?  Ours  they  will  certainly 
be,  if  we  but  try  for  them ;  and,  what  is  a  comfort,  we  are  shut 
out  from  many  temptations  that  would  retard  our  pursuit.  Only 
let  us  try  for  them,  and  they  will  certainly  be  ours ;  and,  what 
is  still  a  comfort,  shortly  too :  for  if  we  look  back  on  a  past 
life,  it  appears  but  a  very  short  span,  and  whatever  we  may 
think  of  the  rest  of  life,  it  will  yet  be  found  of  less  duration ; 
as  we  grow  older,  the  days  seem  to  grow  shorter,  and  our  inti- 
macy with  Time  ever  lessens  the  perception  of  his  stay.  Then 
let  us  take  comfort  now,  for  we  shall  soon  be  at  our  journey's 
end ;  we  shall  soon  lay  down  the  heavy  burden  laid  by  Heaven 
upon  us ;  and  though  death,  the  only  friend  of  the  wretched, 
for  a  little  while  mocks  the  weary  traveller  with  the  view,  and 
like  his  horizon0  still  flies  before  him ;  yet  the  time  will  cer- 
tainly and  shortly  come,  when  we  shall  cease  from  our  toil; 
when  the  luxurious  great  ones  of  the  world  shall  no  more 
tread  us  to  the  earth;  when  we  shall  think  with  pleasure  of 
our  sufferings  below ;  when  we  shall  be  surrounded  with  all 
our  friends,  or  such  as  deserve  our  friendship ;  when  our  bliss 
shall  be  unutterable,  and  still,  to  crown  all,  unending." 

CHAPTER  XXX 

Happier  Prospects  begin  to  appear.     Let  us  be  inflexible,  and  For- 
tune will  at  last  change  in  our  Favour 

WHEN  I  had  thus  finished,  and  my  audience  was  retired,  the 
gaoler,  who  was  one  of  the  most  humane  of  his  profession, 
hoped  I  would  not  be  displeased,  as  what  he  did  was  but  his 


HAPPIER   PROSPECTS  157 

duty,  observing  that  he  must  be  obliged  to  remove  my  son  into 
a  stronger  cell,  but  that  he  should  be  permitted  to  revisit  me 
every  morning.  I  thanked  him  for  his  clemency,  and  grasping 
my  boy's  hand,  bade  him  farewell,  and  be  mindful  of  the  great 
duty  that  was  before  him. 

I  again  therefore  laid  me  down,  and  one  of  my  little  ones  sat 
by  my  bedside  reading,  when  Mr.  Jenkinson  entering,  informed 
me  that  there  was  news  of  my  daughter ;  for  that  she  was  seen 
by  a  person  about  two  hours  before  in  a  strange  gentleman's 
company,  and  that  they  had  stopped  at  a  neighbouring  village 
for  refreshment,  and  seemed  as  if  returning  to  town.  He  had 
scarcely  delivered  this  news  when  the  gaoler  came,  with  looks 
of  haste  and  pleasure,  to  inform  me  that  my  daughter  was  found. 
Moses  came  running  in  a  moment  after,  crying  out  that  his  sis- 
ter Sophia  was  below,  and  coming  up  with  our  old  friend 
Mr.  Burchell. 

Just  as  he  delivered  this  news,  my  dearest  girl  entered,  and, 
with  looks  almost  wild  with  pleasure,  ran  to  kiss  me,  in  a  trans- 
port of  affection.  Her  mother's  tears  and  silence  also  showed 
her  pleasure.  "Here,  papa,"  cried  the  charming  girl,  "here  is 
the  brave  man  to  whom  I  owe  my  delivery ;  to  this  gentleman's 
intrepidity  I  am  indebted  for  my  happiness  and  safety  — 
A  kiss  from  Mr.  Burchell,  whose  pleasure  seemed  even  greater 
than  hers,  interrupted  what  she  was  going  to  add. 

"Ah  !  Mr.  Burchell,"  cried  I,  "this  is  but  a  wretched  habi- 
tation you  now  find  us  in ;  and  we  are  now  very  different  from 
what  you  last  saw  us.  You  were  ever  our  friend :  we  have 
long  discovered  our  errors  with  regard  to  you,  and  repent  of  our 
ingratitude.  After  the  vile  usage  you  then  received  at  my 
hands,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  behold  your  face;  yet  I  hope 
you'll  forgive  me,  as  I  was  deceived  by  a  base  ungenerous 
wretch,  who,  under  the  mask  of  friendship,  has  undone  me." 

"It  is  impossible,"  cried  Mr.  Burchell,  "that  I  should  forgive 
you,  as  you  never  deserved  my  resentment.  I  partly  saw  your 


158  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

delusion  then,  and  as  it  was  out  of  my  power  to  restrain,  I  could 
only  pity  it." 

"It  was  ever  my  conjecture,"  cried  I,  "that  your  mind  was 
noble ;  but  now  I  find  it  so.  —  But  tell  me,  my  dear  child,  how 
thou  hast  been  relieved,  or  who  the  ruffians  were  who  carried 
thee  away  V 

"Indeed,  sir,"  replied  she,  "as  to  the  villain  who  carried  me 
off,  I  am  yet  ignorant.  For,  as  my  mamma  and  I  were  walk- 
ing out,  he  came  behind  us,  and  almost  before  I  could  call  for 
help,  forced  me  into  the  post-chaise,  and  in  an  instant  the 
horses  drove  away.  I  met  several  on  the  road,  to  whom  I 
cried  out  for  assistance,  but  they  disregarded  my  entreaties. 
In  the  meantime,  the  ruffian  himself  used  every  art  to  hinder 
me  from  crying  out :  he  flattered  and  threatened  by  turns,  and 
swore  that,  if  I  continued  but  silent,  he  intended  no  harm.  In 
the  meantime,  I  had  broken  the  canvas  that  he  had  drawn  up, 
and  whom  should  I  perceive  at  some  distance  but  your  old 
friend  Mr.  Burchell,  walking  along  with  his  usual  swiftness, 
with  the  great  stick  for  which  we  used  so  much  to  ridicule 
him.  As  soon  as  we  came  within  hearing,  I  called  out  to  him 
by  name,  and  entreated  his  help.  I  repeated  my  exclamations 
several  times,  upon  which,  with  a  very  loud  voice,  he  bid  the 
postilion  stop  •  but  the  boy  took  no  notice,  but  drove  on  with 
still  greater  speed.  I  now  thought  he  could  never  overtake  us, 
when,  in  less  than  a  minute,  I  saw  Mr.  Burchell  come  running 
up  by  the  side  of  the  horses,  and,  with  one  blow,  knock  the 
postilion  to  the  ground.  The  horses,  when  he  was  fallen,  soon 
stopped  of  themselves,  and  the  ruffian,  stepping  out,  with  oaths 
and  menaces,  drew  his  sword,  and  ordered  him,  at  his  peril,  to 
retire ;  but  Mr.  Burchell,  running  up,  shivered  his  sword  to 
pieces,  and  then  pursued  him  for  near  a  quarter  of  a  mile ; 
but  he  made  his  escape.  I  was  at  this  time  come  out  myself, 
willing  to  assist  my  deliverer;  but  he  soon  returned  to  me  in 
triumph.  The  postilion,  who  was  recovered,  was  going  to 


HAPPIER    PROSPECTS  159 

make  his  escape  too ;  but  Mr.  Burchell  ordered  him  at  his 
peril  to  mount  again  and  drive  back  to  town.  Finding  it 
impossible  to  resist,  he  reluctantly  complied,  though  the  wound 
he  had  received  seemed  to  me,  at  least,  to  be  dangerous.  He 
continued  to  complain  of  the  pain  as  we  drove  along,  so  that  he 
at  last  excited  Mr.  Burchell's  compassion,  who,  at  my  request, 
exchanged  him  for  another,  at  an  inn  where  we  called  on  our 
return." 

"Welcome,  then,"  cried  I,  "my  child!  and  thou,  her  gal- 
lant deliverer,  a  thousand  welcomes !  Though  our  cheer  is  but 
wretched,  yet  our  hearts  are  ready  to  receive  you.  And  now, 
Mr.  Burchell,  as  you  have  delivered  my  girl,  if  you  think  her  a 
recompense,  she  is  yours :  if  you  can  stoop  to  an  alliance  with 
a  family  so  poor  as  mine,  take  her ;  obtain  her  consent,  —  as  I 
know  you  have  her  heart,  —  and  you  have  mine.  And  let  me 
tell  you,  sir,  that  I  give  you  no  small  treasure :  she  has  been 
celebrated  for  beauty,  it  is  true,  but  that  is  not  my  meaning,  — 
I  give  you  up  a  treasure  in  her  mind." 

"But  I  suppose,  sir,"  cried  Mr.  Burchell,  "that  you  are 
apprised  of  my  circumstances,  and  of  my  incapacity  to  support 
her  as  she  deserves  ? " 

"If  your  present  objection,"  replied  I,  "be  meant  as  an 
evasion  of  my  offer,  I  desist :  but  I  know  no  man  so  worthy  to 
deserve  her  as  you ;  and  if  I  could  give  her  thousands,  and 
thousands  sought  her  from  me,  yet  my  honest  brave  Burchell 
should  be  my  dearest  choice." 

To  all  this  his  silence  alone  seemed  to  give  a  mortifying  re- 
fusal :  and,  without  the  least  reply  to  my  offer,  he  demanded 
if  he  could  not  be  furnished  with  refreshments  from  the  next 
inn ;  to  which  being  answered  in  the  affirmative,  he  ordered 
them  to  send  in  the  best  dinner  that  could  be  provided  upon 
such  short  notice.  He  bespoke  also  a  dozen  of  their  best  wine, 
and  some  cordials  for  me ;  adding,  with  a  smile,  that  he  would 
stretch  a  little  for  once,  and,  though  in  a  prison,  asserted  he 


160  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

was  never  better  disposed  to  be  merry.  The  waiter  soon  made 
his  appearance  with  preparations  for  dinner ;  a  table  was  lent 
us  by  the  gaoler,  who  seemed  remarkably  assiduous ;  the  wine 
was  disposed  in  order,  and  two  very  well  dressed  dishes  were 
brought  in. 

My  daughter  had  not  yet  heard  of  her  poor  brother's  melan- 
choly situation,  and  we  all  seemed  unwilling  to  damp  her  cheer- 
fulness by  the  relation.  But  it  was  in  vain  that  I  attempted 
to  appear  cheerful :  the  circumstances  of  my  unfortunate  son 
broke  through  all  efforts  to  dissemble ;  so  that  I  was  at  last 
obliged  to  damp  our  mirth  by  relating  his  misfortunes,  and 
wishing  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  share  with  us  in  this 
little  interval  of  satisfaction.  After  my  guests  were  recovered 
from  the  consternation  my  account  had  produced,  I  requested 
also  that  Mr.  Jenkinson,  a  fellow-prisoner,  might  be  admitted, 
and  the  gaoler  granted  my  request  with  an  air  of  unusual  sub- 
mission. The  clanking  of  my  son's  irons  was  no  sooner  heard 
along  the  passage,  than  his  sister  ran  impatiently  to  meet  him, 
while  Mr.  Burchell,  in  the  meantime,  asked  me  if  my  son's 
name  was  George ;  to  which,  replying  in  the  affirmative,  he 
still  continued  silent.  As  soon  as  my  boy  entered  the  room, 
I  could  perceive  he  regarded  Mr.  Burchell  with  a  look  of  aston- 
ishment and  reverence.  "Come  on,"  cried  I,  "my  son;  though 
we  are  fallen  very  low,  yet  Providence  has  been  pleased  to  grant 
us  some  small  relaxation  from  pain.  Thy  sister  is  restored  to 
us,  and  there  is  her  deliverer :  to  that  brave  man  it  is  that  I 
am  indebted  for  yet  having  a  daughter :  give  him,  my  boy,  the 
hand  of  friendship  ;  he  deserves  our  warmest  gratitude." 

My  son  seemed  all  this  while  regardless  of  what  I  said,  and 
still  continued  fixed  at  respectful  distance.  "  My  dear  brother," 
cried  his  sister,  £ '  why  don't  you  thank  my  good  deliverer  ?  the 
brave  should  ever  love  each  other." 

He  still  continued  his  silence  and  astonishment,  till  our  guest 
at  last  perceived  himself  to  be  known,  and,  assuming  all  his 


HAPPIER    PROSPECTS  161 

native  dignity,  desired  my  son  to  come  forward.  Never  before 
had  I  seen  anything  so  truly  majestic  as  the  air  he  assumed  on 
this  occasion.  The  greatest  object  in  the  universe,  says  a  cer- 
tain philosopher,  is  a  good  man  struggling  with  adversity ;  yet 
there  is  still  a  greater,  which  is  the  good  man  that  comes  to 
relieve  it.  After  he  had  regarded  my  son  for  some  time  with  a 
superior  air — "I  again  find,"  said  he,  " unthinking  boy,  that 

of  the  same  crime "  But  here  he  was  interrupted  by  one 

the  gaoler's  servants,  who  came  to  inform  us  that  a  person  of 
distinction,  who  had  driven  into  town  with  a  chariot  and  sev- 
eral attendants,  sent  his  respects  to  the  gentleman  that  was 
with  us,  and  begged  to  know  when  he  should  think  proper  to 
be  waited  upon.  uBid  the  fellow  wait,"  cried  our  guest,  "till 
I  shall  have  leisure  to  receive  him  : "  and  then  turning  to  my 
son,  "  I  again  find,  sir,"  proceeded  he,  "  that  you  are  guilty  of 
the  same  offence  for  which  you  once  had  my  reproof,  and  for 
which  the  law  is  now  preparing  its  justest  punishments.  You 
imagine,  perhaps,  that  a  contempt  for  your  own  life  gives  you 
a  right  to  take  that  of  another  :  but  where,  sir,  is  the  difference 
between  a  duellist,  who  hazards  a  life  of  no  value,  and  the  mur- 
derer who  acts  with  greater  security  1  Is  it  any  diminution  of 
the  gamester's  fraud,  when  he  alleges  that  he  has  staked  a 
counter?"0 

"Alas,  sir,"  cried  I,  "whoever  you  are,  pity  the  poor  mis- 
guided creature ;  for  what  he  has  done  was  in  obedience  to  a 
deluded  mother,  who,  in  the  bitterness  of  her  resentment,  re- 
quired him,  upon  her  blessing,  to  avenge  her  quarrel.  Here, 
sir,  is  the  letter,  which  will  serve  to  convince  you  of  her  im- 
prudence, and  diminish  his  guilt." 

He  took  the  letter,  and  hastily  read  it  over.  "  This,"  says 
he,  "though  not  a  perfect  excuse,  is  such  a  palliation  of  his 
fault  as  induces  me  to  forgive  him.  And  now,  sir,"  continued 
he,  kindly  taking  my  son  by  the  hand,  "I  see  you  are  surprised 
at  finding  me  here ;  but  I  have  often  visited  prisons  upon  occa- 


162  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

sions  less  interesting.  I  am  now  come  to  see  justice  done  a 
worthy  man,  for  whom  I  have  the  most  sincere  esteem.  I  have 
long  been  a  disguised  spectator  of  thy  father's  benevolence.  I 
have,  at  his  little  dwelling,  enjoyed  respect  uncontaminated  by 
flattery ;  and  have  received  that  happiness  that  courts  could 
not  give,  from  the  amusing  simplicity  around  his  fire-side.  My 
nephew  has  been  apprised  of  my  intentions  of  coming  here,  and, 
I  find,  is  arrived.  It  would  be  wronging  him  and  you  to  con- 
demn him  without  examination  :  if  there  be  injury,  there  shall 
be  redress ;  and  this  I  may  say,  without  boasting,  that  none 
have  ever  taxed  the  injustice  of  Sir  William  Thornhill." 

We  now  found  the  personage  whom  we  had  so  long  enter- 
tained as  an  harmless  amusing  companion  was  no  other  than 
the  celebrated  Sir  William  Thornhill,  to  whose  virtues  and  sin- 
gularities scarce  any  were  strangers.  The  poor  Mr.  Burchell 
was  in  reality  a  man  of  large  fortune  and  great  interest,  to 
whom  senates  listened  with  applause,  and  whom  party  heard 
with  conviction;  who  was  the  friend  of  his  country,  but  loyal 
to  his  king.  My  poor  wife,  recollecting  her  former  familiarity, 
seemed  to  shrink  with  apprehension ;  but  Sophia,  who  a  few 
moments  before  thought  him  her  own,  now  perceiving  the  im- 
mense distance  to  which  he  was  removed  by  fortune,  was  unable 
to  conceal  her  tears. 

"Ah  !  sir,"  cried  my  wife,  with  a  piteous  aspect,  "how  is  it 

possible  that  I  can  ever  have  your  forgiveness  ?     The  slights 

you  received  from  me  the  last  time  I  had  the  honour  of  seeing 

you  at  our  house,  and  the  jokes  which  I  audaciously  threw  out 

—  these,  sir,  I  fear,  can  never  be  forgiven." 

"My  dear  good  lady,"  returned  he  with  a  smile,  "if  you 
had  your  joke,  I  had  my  answer :  I'll  leave  it  to  all  the  com- 
pany if  mine  were  not  as  good  as  yours.  To  say  the  truth,  I 
know  nobody  whom  I  am  disposed  to  be  angry  with  at  present, 
but  the  fellow  who  so  frighted  my  little  girl  here.  I  had  not 
even  time  to  examine  the  rascal's  person  so  as  to  describe  him 


HAPPIER    PROSPECTS  163 

in  an  advertisement.  Can  you  tell  me,  Sophia,  my  dear, 
whether  you  should  know  him  again  1 " 

"Indeed,  sir,"  replied  she,  "I  can't  be  positive;  yet  now  I 
recollect,  he  had  a  large  mark  over  one  of  his  eyebrows."  —  "I 
ask  pardon,  madam,"  interrupted  Jenkinson,  who  was  by,  "  but 
be  so  good  as  to  inform  me  if  the  fellow  wore  his  own  red  hair  ? " 
—  "Yes,  I  think  so,"  cried  Sophia.  "And  did  your  honour," 
continued  he,  turning  to  Sir  William,  "  observe  the  length  of 
his  legs'?"-  —  "I  can't  be  sure  of  their  length,"  cried  the  Bar- 
onet, "  but  I  am  convinced  of  their  swiftness ;  for  he  outran 
me,  which  is  what  I  thought  few  men  in  the  kingdom  could 
have  done."  —  "Please  your  honour,"  cried  Jenkinson,  "I 
know  the  man:  it  is  certainly  the  same;  the  best  runner  in 
England ;  he  has  beaten  Pinwire  of  Newcastle  :  Timothy  Bax- 
ter is  his  name ;  I  know  him  perfectly,  and  the  very  place  of 
his  retreat  this  moment.  If  your  honour  will  bid  Mr.  Gaoler  let 
two  of  his  men  go  with  me,  I'll  engage  to  produce  him  to  you 
in  an  hour  at  farthest."  Upon  this  the  gaoler  was  called,  who 
instantly  appearing,  Sir  William  demanded  if  he  knew  him. 
"Yes,  please  your  honour,"  replied  the  gaoler,  "I  know  Sir 
William  Thornhill  well,  and  everybody  that  knows  anything  of 
him  will  desire  to  know  more  of  him." -— "Well,  then,"  said 
the  Baronet,  "my  request  is,  that  you  will  permit  this  man  and 
two  of  your  servants  to  go  upon  a  message  by  my  authority ; 
and  as  I  am  in  the  commission  of  the  peace,  I  undertake  to 
secure  you." —  "Your  promise  is  sufficient,"  replied  the  other, 
"and  you  may,  at  a  minute's  warning,  send  them  over  England 
whenever  your  honour  thinks  fit." 

In  pursuance  of  the  gaoler's  compliance,  Jenkinson  was  de- 
spatched in  search  of  Timothy  Baxter,  while  we  were  amused 
with  the  assiduity  of  our  youngest  boy  Bill,  who  had  just  come 
in  and  climbed  up  Sir  William's  neck,  in  order  to  kiss  him. 
His  mother  was  immediately  going  to  chastise  his  familiarity, 
but  the  worthy  man  prevented  her ;  and  taking  the  child,  all 


164  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

ragged  as  he  was,  upon  his  knee,  "What,  Bill,  you  chubby 
rogue,"  cried  he,  "do  you  remember  your  old  friend  Burchell? 
and  Dick,  too,  my  honest  veteran,  are  you  here  1  you  shall  find 
I  have  not  forgotten  you."  So  saying,  he  gave  each  a  large 
piece  of  gingerbread,  which  the  poor  fellows  ate  very  heartily, 
as  they  had  got  that  morning  a  very  scanty  breakfast. 

We  now  sat  down  to  dinner,  which  was  almost  cold  ;  but  pre- 
viously, my  arm  still  continuing  painful,  Sir  William  wrote  a 
prescription,  for  he  had  made  the  study  of  physic  his  amuse- 
ment, and  was  more  than  moderately  skilled  in  the  profession  : 
this  being  sent  to  an  apothecary  who  lived  in  the  place,  my 
arm  was  dressed,  and  I  found  almost  instantaneous  relief.  We 
were  waited  upon  at  dinner  by  the  gaoler  himself,  who  was 
willing  to  do  our  guest  all  the  honour  in  his  power.  But 
before  we  had  well  dined,  another  message  was  brought  from 
his  nephew,  desiring  permission  to  appear  in  order  to  vindicate 
his  innocence  and  honour;  with  which  request  the  Baronet 
complied,  and  desired  Mr.  Thornhill  to  be  introduced. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

Former  Benevolence  now  repaid  with  unexpected  Interest 

MR.  THORNHILL  made  his  appearance  with  a  smile,  which 
he  seldom  wanted,  and  was  going  to  embrace  his  uncle,  which 
the  other  repulsed  with  an  air  of  disdain.  "  No  fawning,  sir, 
at  present,"  cried  the  Baronet,  with  a  look  of  severity;  "the 
only  way  to  my  heart  is  by  the  road  of  honour ;  but  here  I 
only  see  complicated  instances  of  falsehood,  cowardice,  and 
oppression.  How  is  it,  sir,  that  this  poor  man,  for  whom  I 
know  you  professed  a  friendship,  is  used  thus  hardly?  His 
daughter  vilely  seduced  as  a  recompense  for  his  hospitality,  and 


BENEVOLENCE    EEPAID  165 

he  himself  thrown  into  prison,  perhaps  for  resenting  the  insult  1 
His  son,  too,  whom  you  feared  to  face  as  a  man " 

"Is  it  possible,  sir,"  interrupted  his  nephew,  "that  my  uncle 
should  object0  that  as  a  crime,  which  his  repeated  instructions 
alone  have  pursuaded  me  to  avoid  1 " 

"Your  rebuke,"  cried  Sir  William,  "is  just;  you  have  acted, 
in  this  instance,  prudently  and  well,  though  not  quite  as  your 
father  would  have  done :  my  brother,  indeed,  was  the  soul  of 

honour;  but  thou Yes,  you  have  acted,  in  this  instance, 

perfectly  right,  and  it  has  my  warmest  approbation." 

"And  I  hope,"  said  his  nephew,  "that  the  rest  of  my  con- 
duct will  not  be  found  to  deserve  censure.  I  appeared,  sir, 
with,  this  gentleman's  daughter  at  some  places  of  public  amuse- 
ment :  thus,  what  was  levity,  scandal  called  by  a  harsher 
name,  and  it  was  reported  I  had  debauched  her.  I  waited  on 
her  father  in  person,  willing  to  clear  the  thing  to  his  satisfac- 
tion, and  he  received  me  only  with  insult  and  abuse.  As  for 
the  rest,  with  regard  to  his  being  here,  my  attorney  and  steward 
can  best  inform  you,  as  I  commit  the  management  of  business 
entirely  to  them.  If  he  has  contracted  debts,  and  is  unwilling, 
or  even  unable  to  pay  them,  it  is  their  business  to  proceed  in 
this  matter :  and  I  see  no  hardship  or  injustice  in  pursuing  the 
most  legal  means  of  redress." 

"  If  this,"  cried  Sir  William,  "  be  as  you  have  stated  it,  there 
is  nothing  unpardonable  in  your  offence ;  and  though  your  con- 
duct might  have  been  more  generous  in  not  suffering  this  gentle- 
man to  be  oppressed  by  subordinate  tyranny,  yet  it  has  been  at 
least  equitable." 

"He  cannot  contradict  a  single  particular,"  replied  the 
Squire;  "I  defy  him  to  do  so;  and  several  of  my  servants 
are  ready  to  attest  what  I  say.  Thus,  sir,"  continued  he,  find- 
ing that  I  was  silent,  for  in  fact  I  could  not  contradict  him  — 
"  thus,  sir,  my  own  innocence  is  vindicated  :  but  though  at 
your  entreaty  I  am  ready  to  forgive  this  gentleman  every  other 


166  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

offence,  yet  his  attempts  to  lessen  me  in  your  esteem  excite  a 
resentment  that  I  cannot  govern ;  and  this,  too,  at  a  time  when 
his  son  was  actually  preparing  to  take  away  my  life,  —  this,  I 
say,  was  such  guilt,  that  I  am  determined  to  let  the  law  take 
its  course.  I  have  here  the  challenge  that  was  sent  me,  and 
two  witnesses  to  prove  it :  one  of  my  servants  has  been  wounded 
dangerously ;  and  even  though  my  uncle  himself  should  dis- 
suade me,  which  I  know  he  will  not,  yet  I  will  see  public  jus- 
tice done,  and  he  shall  suffer  for  it." 

"  Thou  monster ! "  cried  my  wife,  "  hast  thou  not  had  ven- 
geance enough  already,  but  must  my  poor  boy  feel  thy  cruelty  ? 
I  hope  that  good  Sir  William  will  protect  us ;  for  my  son  is 
as  innocent  as  a  child :  I  am  sure  he  is,  and  never  did  harm  to 
man." 

"Madam,"  replied  the  good  man,  "your  wishes  for  his  safety 
are  not  greater  than  mine ;  but  I  am  sorry  to  find  his  guilt  too 
plain ;  and  if  my  nephew  persists  —  But  the  appearance  of 

Jenkinson  and  the  gaoler's  two  servants  now  called  off  our 
attention,  who  entered,  hauling  in  a  tall  man,  very  genteelly 
dressed,  and  answering  the  description  already  given  of  the 
ruffian  who  had  carried  off  my  daughter.  "Here,"  cried  Jen- 
kinson, pulling  him  in,  "  here  we  have  him  ;  and  if  ever  there 
was  a  candidate  for  Tyburn,0  this  is  one." 

The  moment  Mr.  Thornhill  perceived  the  prisoner,  and  Jen- 
kinson who  had  him  in  custody,  he  seemed  to  shrink  back  with 
terror.  His  face  became  pale  with  conscious  guilt,  and  he 
would  have  withdrawn,  but  Jenkinson,  who  perceived  his  de- 
sign, stopped  him.  "What,  Squire,"  cried  he,  "are  you 
ashamed  of  your  two  old  acquaintances,  Jenkinson  and  Bax- 
ter ?  But  this  is  the  way  that  all  great  men  forget  their  friends, 
though  I  am  resolved  we  will  not  forget  you.  Our  prisoner, 
please  your  honour,"  continued  he,  turning  to  Sir  William, 
"  has  already  confessed  all.  This  is  the  gentleman  reported 
to  be  so  dangerously  wounded.  He  declares  that  it  was  Mr. 


BENEVOLENCE    REPAID  167 

Thornhill  who  first  put  him  upon  this  affair ;  that  he  gave  him 
the  clothes  he  now  wears,  to  appear  like  a  gentleman,  and  fur- 
nished him  with  the  post-chaise.  The  plan  was  laid  between 
them,  that  he  snould  carry  off  the  young  lady  to  a  place  of 
safety,  and  that  there  he  should  threaten  and  terrify  her ;  but 
Mr.  Thornhill  was  to  come  in,  in  the  meantime,  as  if  by  acci- 
dent, to  her  rescue ;  and  that  they  should  fight  a  while,  and 
then  he  was  to  run  off,  —  by  which  Mr.  Thornhill  would  have 
the  better  opportunity  of  gaining  her  affections  himself,  under 
the  character  of  her  defender." 

Sir  William  remembered  the  coat  to  have  been  worn  by  his 
nephew,  and  all  the  rest  the  prisoner  himself  confirmed  by  a 
more  circumstantial  account;  concluding,  that  Mr.  Thornhill 
had  often  declared  to  him  that  he  was  in  love  with  both  sisters 
at  the  same  time. 

"Heavens  !  "  cried  Sir  William,  "what  a  viper  have  I  been 
fostering  in  my  bosom  !  And  so  fond  of  public  justice,  too,  as 
he  seemed  to  be  !  But  he  shall  have  it :  secure  him,  Mr.  Gaoler. 
—  Yet,  hold  !  I  fear  there  is  not  legal  evidence  to  detain  him." 

Upon  this  Mr.  Thornhill,  with  the  utmost  humility,  entreated 
that  two  such  abandoned  wretches  might  not  be  admitted  as 
evidences  against  him,  but  that  his  servants  should  be  exam- 
ined. "Your  servants  !  "  replied  Sir  William.  "Wretch  !  call 
them  yours  no  longer :  but  come,  let  us  hear  what  those  fellows 
have  to  say ;  let  his  butler  be  called." 

When  the  butler  was  introduced,  he  soon  perceived  by  his 
former  master's  looks  that  all  his  power  was  now  over.  "  Tell 
me,"  cried  Sir  William  sternly,  "  have  you  ever  seen  your  mas- 
ter, and  that  fellow  dressed  up  in  his  clothes,  in  company 
together?"  —  "Yes,  please  your  honour,"  cried  the  butler,  "a 
thousand  times :  he  was  the  man  that  always  brought  him  his 
ladies."  —  "  How  !  "  interrupted  young  Mr.  Thornhill,  "  this  to 
rny  face  1 "  -  —  "  Yes,"  replied  the  butler,  "  or  to  any  man's  face. 
To  tell  you  a  truth,  Master  Thornhill,  I  never  either  loved  you 


168  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

or  liked  you,  and  I  don't  care  if  I  tell  you  now  a  piece  of  my 
mind." -— "Now,  then,"  cried  Jenkinson,  "tell  his  honour 
whether  you  know  anything  of  me."  —  "I  can't  say,"  replied 
the  butler,  "  that  I  know  much  good  of  you.  The  night  that 
gentleman's  daughter  was  deluded  to  our  house,  you  were  one 
of  them."  —  "  So  then,"  cried  Sir  William,  "  I  find  you  have 
brought  a  very  fine  witness  to  prove  your  innocence :  thou  stain 
to  humanity!  to  associate  with  such  wretches  !  But,"  continu- 
ing his  examination,  "you  tell  me,  Mr.  Butler,  that  this  was  the 
person  who  brought  him  this  old  gentleman's  daughter. "- 
"No,  please  your  honour,"  replied  the  butler,  "he  did  not  bring 
her,  for  the  Squire  himself  undertook  that  business ;  but  he 
brought  the  priest  that  pretended  to  marry  them."  —  "It  is 
but  too  true,"  cried  Jenkinson;  "I  cannot  deny  it;  that  was 
the  employment  assigned  me,  and  I  confess  it  to  my  confusion." 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  exclaimed  the  Baronet,  "  how  every  new 
discovery  of  his  villany  alarms  me  !  All  his  guilt  is  now  too 
plain,  and  I  find  his  prosecution  was  dictated  by  tyranny,  cow- 
ardice, and  revenge.  At  my  request,  Mr.  Gaoler,  set  this  young 
officer,  now  your  prisoner,  free,  and  trust  to  me  for  the  conse- 
quences. I'll  make  it  my  business  to  set  the  affair  in  a  proper 
light  to  my  friend  the  magistrate,  who  has  committed  him. 
But  where  is  the  unfortunate  young  lady  herself?  Let  her 
appear  to  confront  this  wretch :  I  long  to  know  by  what  arts 
he  has  seduced  her.  Entreat  her  to  come  in.  Where  is  she  ? " 

"Ah!  sir,"  said  I,  "that  question  stings  me  to  the  heart: 
I  was  once  indeed  happy  in  a  daughter,  but  her  miseries  — 
Another  interruption  here  prevented  me ;  for  who  should  make 
her  appearance  but  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot,  who  was  next  day 
to  have  been  married  to  Mr.  Thornhill.  Nothing  could  equal 
her  surprise  at  seeing  Sir  William  and  his  nephew  here  before 
her;  for  her  arrival  was  quite  accidental.  It  happened  that 
she  and  the  old  gentleman,  her  father,  were  passing  through 
the  town,  on  the  way  to  her  aunt's,  who  had  insisted  that  her 


BENEVOLENCE    REPAID  169 

nuptials  with  Mr.  Thornhill  should  be  consummated  at  her 
house ;  but  stopping  for  refreshment,  they  put  up  at  an  inn  at 
the  other  end  of  the  town.  It  was  there,  from  the  window, 
that  the  young  lady  happened  to  observe  one  of  my  little  boys 
playing  in  the  street,  and  instantly  sending  a  footman  to  bring 
the  child  to  her,  she  learned  from  him  some  account  of  our  mis- 
fortunes ;  but  was  still  kept  ignorant  of  young  Mr.  ThornhilFs 
being  the  cause.  Though  her  father  made  several  remonstrances 
on  the  impropriety  of  going  to  prison  to  visit  us,  yet  they  were 
ineffectual ;  she  desired  the  child  to  conduct  her,  which  he  did, 
and  it  was  thus  she  surprised  us  at  a  juncture  so  unexpected. 

Nor  can  I  go  on  without  a  reflection  on  those  accidental 
meetings,  which,  though  they  happen  every  day,  seldom  excite 
our  surprise  but  upon  some  extraordinary  occasion.  To  what 
a  fortuitous  concurrence  do  we  not  owe  every  pleasure  and  con- 
venience of  our  lives !  How  many  seeming  accidents  must  unite 
before  we  can  be  clothed  or  fed !  The  peasant  must  be  dis- 
posed to  labour,  the  shower  must  fall,  the  wind  fill  the  mer- 
chant's sail,  or  numbers  must  want  the  usual  supply. 

We  all  continued  silent  for  some  moments,  while  my  charm- 
ing pupil,  which  was  the  name  I  generally  gave  this  young  lady, 
united  in  her  looks  compassion  and  astonishment,  which  gave 
new  finishing  to  her  beauty.  —  "  Indeed,  my  dear  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill,"  cried  she  to  the  Squire,  who  she  supposed  was  come  here 
to  succour,  and  not  to  oppress  us,  "I  take  it  a  little  unkindly 
that  you  should  come  here  without  me,  or  never  inform  me  of 
the  situation  of  a  family  so  dear  to  us  both  :  you  know  I  should 
take  as  much  pleasure  in  contributing  to  the  relief  of  my  rev- 
erend old  master  here,  whom  I  shall  ever  esteem,  as  you  can. 
But  I  find  that,  like  your  uncle,  you  take  a  pleasure  in  doing 
good  in  secret." 

"  He  find  pleasure  in  doing  good  !  "  cried  Sir  William,  inter- 
rupting her.  "No,  my  dear,  his  pleasures  are  as  base  as  he  is. 
You  see  in  him,  madam,  as  complete  a  villain  as  ever  disgraced 


170  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

humanity.  A  wretch,  who,  after  having  deluded  this  poor  man's 
daughter,  after  plotting  against  the  innocence  of  her  sister,  has 
thrown  the  father  into  prison,  and  the  eldest  son  into  fetters 
because  he  had  the  courage  to  face  her  betrayer.  And  give  me 
leave,  madam,  now  to  congratulate  you  upon  an  escape  from 
the  embraces  of  such  a  monster." 

"  0  goodness  ! "  cried  the  lovely  girl,  "  how  have  I  been  de- 
ceived !  Mr.  Thornhill  informed  me  for  certain  that  this  gen- 
tleman's eldest  son,  Captain  Primrose,  was  gone  off  to  America 
with  his  new-married  lady." 

uMy  sweetest  Miss,"  cried  my  wife,  "he  has  told  you 
nothing  but  falsehoods.  My  son  George  never  left  the  king- 
dom, nor  ever  was  married.  Though  you  have  forsaken  him, 
he  has  always  loved  you  too  well  to  think  of  anybody  else ; 
and  I  have  heard  him  say,  he  would  die  a  bachelor  for  your 
sake."  She  then  proceeded  to  expatiate  upon  the  sincerity  of 
her  son's  passion  :  she  set  his  duel  with  Mr.  Thornhill  in  a 
proper  light ;  from  thence  she  made  a  rapid  digression  to  the 
Squire's  debaucheries,  his  pretended  marriages,  and  ended  with 
a  most  insulting  picture  of  his  cowardice. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  cried  Miss  Wilmot,  "  how  very  near  have 
I  been  to  the  brink  of  ruin  !  But  how  great  is  my  pleasure 
to  have  escaped  it !  Ten  thousand  falsehoods  has  this  gentle- 
man told  me !  He  had  at  last  art  enough  to  persuade  me, 
that  my  promise  to  the  only  man  I  esteemed  was  no  longer 
binding,  since  he  had  been  unfaithful.  By  his  falsehoods  I  was 
taught  to  detest  one  equally  brave  and  generous  ! " 

By  this  time  my  son  was  freed  from  the  encumbrances  of 
justice,  as  the  person  supposed  to  be  wounded  was  detected 
to  be  an  impostor.  Mr.  Jenkinson,  also,  who  had  acted  as 
his  valet-de-chambre,  had  dressed  up  his  hair,  and  furnished 
him  with  whatever  was  necessary  to  make  a  genteel  appear- 
ance. He  now  therefore  entered,  handsomely  dressed  in  his 
regimentals;  and,  without  vanity  (for  I  am  above  it),  he  ap- 


BENEVOLENCE    REPAID  171 

peared  as  handsome  a  fellow  as  ever  wore  a  military  dress.  As 
he  entered,  he  made  Miss  Wilinot  a  modest  and  distant  bow, 
for  he  was  not  as  yet  acquainted  with  the  change  which  the 
eloquence  of  his  mother  had  wrought  in  his  favour.  But  no 
decorums  could  restrain  the  impatience  of  his  blushing  mistress 
to  be  forgiven.  Her  tears,  her  looks,  all  contributed  to  dis- 
cover the  real  sensations  of  her  heart,  for  having  forgotten  her 
former  promise,  and  having  suffered  herself  to  be  deluded  by 
an  impostor.  My  son  appeared  amazed  at  her  condescension, 
and  could  scarce  believe  it  real.  —  "Sure,  madam,"  cried  he, 
"  this  is  but  delusion  !  I  can  never  have  merited  this !  To 
be  blessed  thus  is  to  be  too  happy."  —  "No,  sir,"  replied  she; 
"I  have  been  deceived,  basely  deceived,  else  nothing  could 
have  ever  made  me  unjust  to  my  promise.  You  know  my 
friendship  —  you  have  long  known  it  —  but  forget  what  I  have 
done,  and  as  you  once  had  my  warmest  vows  of  constancy,  you 
shall  now  have  them  repeated ;  and  be  assured,  that,  if  your 
Arabella  cannot  be  yours,  she  shall  never  be  another's."  — 
"And  no  other's  you  shall  be,"  cried  Sir  William,  "if  I  have 
any  influence  with  your  father." 

This  hint  was  sufficient  for  my  son  Moses,  who  immediately 
flew  to  the  inn  where  the  old  gentleman  was,  to  inform  him 
of  every  circumstance  that  had  happened.  But  in  the  mean- 
time, the  Squire,  perceiving  that  he  was  on  every  side  undone, 
now  finding  that  no  hopes  were  left  from  flattery  or  dissimu- 
lation, concluded  that  his  wisest  way  would  be  to  turn  and  face 
his  pursuers.  Thus,  laying  aside  all  shame,  he  appeared  the 
open,  hardy  villain.  "I  find,  then,"  cried  he,  "that  I  am  to 
expect  no  justice  here ;  but  I  am  resolved  it  shall  be  done  me. 
You  shall  know,  sir,"  turning  to  Sir  William,  "I  am  no  longer 
a  poor  dependent  upon  your  favours.  I  scorn  them.  Nothing 
can  keep  Miss  Wilmot's  fortune  from  me,  which,  I  thank  her 
father's  assiduity,  is  pretty  large.  The  articles,  and  a  bond  for 
her  fortune,  are  signed,  and  safe  in  my  possession.  It  was  her 


172  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

fortune,  not  her  person,  that  induced  me  to  wish  for  this  match  ; 
and,  possessed  of  the  one,  let  who  will  take  the  other." 

This  was  an  alarming  blow.  Sir  William  was  sensible  of 
the  justice  of  his  claims,  for  he  had  been  instrumental  in  draw- 
ing up  the  marriage  articles  himself.  Miss  Wilmot,  therefore, 
perceiving  that  her  fortune  was  irretrievably  lost,  turning  to 
my  son,  she  asked  if  the  loss  of  fortune  could  lessen  her  value 
to  him  ?  "  Though  fortune,'7  said  she,  "is  out  of  my  power,  at 
least  I  have  my  hand  to  give." 

"And  that,  madam,"  cried  her  real  lover,  "was  indeed  all 
that  you  ever  had  to  give;  at  least  all  that  I  ever  thought 
worth  the  acceptance.  And  I  now  protest,  my  Arabella,  by  all 
that's  happy,  your  want  of  fortune  this  moment  increases  my 
pleasure,  as  it  serves  to  convince  my  sweet  girl  of  my  sincerity." 

Mr.  Wilmot  now  entering,  he  seemed  not  a  little  pleased  at 
the  danger  his  daughter  had  just  escaped,  and  readily  consented 
to  a  dissolution  of  the  match.  But  finding  that  her  fortune, 
which  was  secured  to  Mr.  Thornhill  by  bond,  would  not  be 
given  up,  nothing  could  exceed  his  disappointment.  He  now 
saw  that  his  money  must  all  go  to  enrich  one  who  had  no 
fortune  of  his  own.  He  could  bear  his  being  a  rascal,  but  to 
want  an  equivalent  to  his  daughter's  fortune  was  wormwood. 
He  sat,  therefore,  for  some  minutes  employed  in  the  most 
mortifying  speculations,  till  Sir  William  attempted  to  lessen 
his  anxiety,  "I  must  confess,  sir,"  cried  he,  "that  your  pres- 
ent disappointment  does  not  entirely  displease  me.  Your  im- 
moderate passion  for  wealth  is  now  justly  punished.  But 
though  the  young  lady  cannot  be  rich,  she  has  still  a  compe- 
tence sufficient  to  give  content.  Here  you  see  an  honest  young 
soldier,  who  is  willing  to  take  her  without  fortune  :  they  have 
long  loved  each  other ;  and  for  the  friendship  I  bear  his  father, 
my  interest  shall  not  be  wanting  in  his  promotion.  Leave,  then, 
that  ambition  which  disappoints  you,  and  for  once  admit  that 
happiness  which  courts  your  acceptance." 


BENEVOLENCE    REPAID  173 

"Sir  William,"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  "be  assured  I 
never  yet  forced  her  inclinations,  nor  will  I  now.  If  she  still 
continues  to  love  this  young  gentleman,  let  her  have  him,  with 
all  my  heart.  There  is  still,  thank  Heaven,  some  fortune  left, 
and  your  promise  will  make  it  something  more.  Only  let  my 
old  friend  here"  (meaning  me)  "give  me  a  promise  of  settling 
six  thousand  pounds  upon  my  girl  if  ever  he  should  come  to 
his  fortune,  I  am  ready,  this  night,  to  be  the  first  to  join  them 
together." 

As  it  now  remained  with  me  to  make  the  young  couple 
happy,  I  readily  gave  a  promise  of  making  the  settlement  he 
required ;  which,  to  one  who  had  such  little  expectations  as 
I,  was  no  great  favour.  We  had  now,  therefore,  the  satisfac- 
tion of  seeing  them  fly  into  each  other's  arms  in  a  transport. 
"After  all  my  misfortunes,"  cried  my  son  George,  "to  be  thus 
rewarded  !  Sure  this  is  more  than  I  could  ever  have  presumed 
to  hope  for.  To  be  possessed  of  all  that's  good,  and-  after  such 
an  interval  of  pain  !  My  warmest  wishes  could  nev^r  rise  so 
high  ! " 

"Yes,  my  George,"  returned  his  lovely  bride,  "now  let  the 
wretch  take  my  fortune;  since  you  are  happy  without  it,  so 
am  I.  Oh,  what  an  exchange  have  I  made,  —  from  the  basest 
of  men  to  the  dearest,  best !  Let  him  enjoy  our  fortune,  I  can 
now  be  happy  even  in  indigence."  —  "  And  I  promise  you,"  cried 
the  Squire,  with  a  malicious  grin,  "  that  I  shall  be  very  happy 
with  what  you  despise." — "Hold,  hold,  sir,"  cried  Jenkinson, 
"there  are  two  words  to  that  bargain.  As  for  that  lady's 
fortune,  sir,  you  shall  never  touch  a  single  stiver  of  it.  Pray, 
your  honour,"  continued  he  to  Sir  William,  "can  the  Squire 
have  this  lady's  fortune  if  he  be  married  to  another  ? "  -  —  "  How 
can  you  make  such  a  simple  demand  ? "  replied  the  Baronet : 
"undoubtedly  he  cannot." —  "I  am  sorry  for  that,"  cried  Jen- 
kinson ;  "  for  as  this  gentleman  and  I  have  been  old  fellow- 
sporters,  I  have  a  friendship  for  him.  But  I  must  declare, 


174  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

well  as  I  love  him,  that  this  contract  is  not  worth  a  tobacco- 
stopper,  for  he  is  married  already."  —  "You  lie,  like  a  rascal ! " 
returned  the  Squire,  who  seemed  roused  by  this  insult;  "I 
never  was  legally  married  to  any  woman." 

"Indeed,  begging  your  honour's  pardon,"  replied  the  other, 
"you  were:  and  I  hope  you  will  show  a  proper  return  of 
friendship  to  your  own  honest  Jenkinson,  who  brings  you  a 
wife ;  and  if  the  company  restrain  their  curiosity  a  few  minutes, 
they  shall  see  her."  So  saying,  he  went  off,  with  his  usual 
celerity,  and  left  us  all  unable  to  form  any  probable  conjecture 
as  to  his  design.  "Ay,  let  him  go,"  cried  the  Squire ;  " what- 
ever else  I  may  have  done,  I  defy  him  there.  I  am  too  old 
now  to  be  frightened  with  squibs." 

"  I  am  surprised,"  said  the  Baronet,  "  what  the  fellow  can 
intend  by  this.  Some  low  piece  of  humour,  I  suppose."  —  "Per- 
haps, sir,"  replied  I,  "he  may  have  a  more  serious  meaning. 
For  when  -we  reflect  on  the  various  schemes  this  gentleman  has 
laid  to  seduce  innocence,  perhaps  some  one  more  artful  than  the 
rest  has  been  found  able  to  deceive  him.  When  we  consider 
what  numbers  he  has  ruined,  how  many  parents  now  feel,  with 
anguish,  the  infamy  and  the  contamination  which  he  has  brought 
into  their  families,  it  would  not  surprise  me  if  some  one  of  them 

Amazement !  Do  I  see  my  lost  daughter  ?  Do  I  hold 

her  ?  It  is,  it  is  my  life,  my  happiness  !  I  thought  thee  lost, 
my  Olivia,  yet  still  I  hold  thee  —  and  still  thou  shalt  live  to 
bless  me."  The  warmest  transports  of  the  fondest  lover  were 
not  greater  than  mine,  when  I  saw  him  introduce  my  child,  and 
held  my  daughter  in  my  arms,  whose  silence  only  spoke  her 
raptures. 

"And  art  thou  returned  to  me,  my  darling,"  cried  I,  "to  be 
my  comfort  in  age  ? "  —  "  That  she  is,"  cried  Jenkinson ;  "  and 
make  much  of  her,  for  she  is  your  own  honourable  child,  and  as 
honest  a  woman  as  any  in  the  whole  room,  let  the  other  be  who 
she  will.  And  as  for  you,  Squire,  as  sure  as_  you  stand  there, 


BENEVOLENCE    REPAID  175 

this  young  lady  is  your  lawful  wedded  wife :  and  to  convince 
you  that  I  speak  nothing  but  the*truth,  here  is  the  license  by 
which  you  were  married  together."  So  saying,  he  put  the  license 
into  the  Baronet's  hands,  who  read  it,  and  found  it  perfect  in 
every  respect.  "  And  now,  gentlemen,"  continued  he,  "I  find 
you  are' surprised  at  all  this;  but  a  few  words  will  explain  the 
difficulty.  That  there  Squire  of  renown,  for  whom  I  have  a 
great  friendship  (but  that's  between  ourselves),  has  often  em- 
ployed me  in  doing  odd  little  things  for  him.  Among  the  rest, 
he  commissioned  me  to  procure  him  a  false  license  and  a  false 
priest,  in  order  to  deceive  this  young  lady.  But  as  I  was  very 
much  his  friend,  what  did  I  do,  but  went  and  got  a  true  license 
and  a  true  priest,  and  married  them  both  as  fast  as  the  cloth 
could  make  them.  Perhaps  you'll  think  it  was  generosity  that 
made  me  do  all  this :  but  no ;  to  my  shame  I  confess  it,  my 
only  design  was  to  keep  the  license,  and  let  the  Squire  know 
that  I  could  prove  it  upon  him  whenever  I  thought  proper,  and 
so  make  him  come  down  whenever  I  wanted  money."  A  burst 
of  pleasure  now  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  apartment ;  our  joy 
reached  even  to  the  common  room,  where  the  prisoners  them- 
selves sympathised, 

And  shook  their  chains 

In  transport  and  rude  harmony.0 

Happiness  was  expanded  upon  every  face,  and  even  Olivia's 
cheek  seemed  flushed  with  pleasure.  To  be  thus  restored  to 
reputation,  to  friends,  and  fortune  at  once,  was  a  rapture  suffi- 
cient to  stop  the  progress  of  decay,  and  restore  former  health 
and  vivacity.  But,  perhaps,  among  all,  there  was  not  one  who 
felt  sincerer  pleasure  than  I.  Still  holding  the  dear  loved 
child  in  my  arms,  I  asked  my  heart  if  these  transports  were 
not  delusion.  "How  could  you,"  cried  I,  turning  to  Mr.  Jen- 
kinson,  "how  could  you  add  to  my  miseries  by  the  story  of 


176  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

her  death  1  But  it  matters  not ;  my  pleasure  at  finding  her 
again  is  more  than  a  recompense  for  the  pain." 

"As  to  your  question,"  replied  Jenkinson,  "that  is  easily 
answered.  I  thought  the  only  probable  means  of  freeing  you 
from  prison  was  by  submitting  to  the  Squire,  and  consenting 
to  his  marriage  with  the  other  young  lady.  But  these  you  had 
vowed  never  to  grant  while  your  daughter  was  living :  there 
was  therefore  no  other  method  to  bring  things  to  bear,  but  by 
persuading  you  that  she  was  dead.  I  prevailed  on  your  wife 
to  join  in  the  deceit,  and  we  have  not  had  a  fit  opportunity  of 
undeceiving  you  till  now." 

In  the  whole  assembly  now  there  appeared  only  two  faces 
that  did  not  glow  with  transport.  Mr.  Thornhill's  assurance 
had  entirely  forsaken  him  :  he  now  saw  the  gulf  of  infamy  and 
want  before  him,  and  trembled  to  take  the  plunge.  He  there- 
fore fell  on  his  knees  before  his  uncle,  and  in  a  voice  of  piercing 
misery  implored  compassion.  Sir  William  was  going  to  spurn 
him  away,  but  at  my  request  he  raised  him,  and,  after  pausing 
a  few  moments,  "Thy  vices,  crimes,  and  ingratitude,"  cried  he, 
"  deserve  no  tenderness ;  yet  thou  shalt  not  be  entirely  for- 
saken, —  a  bare  competence  shall  be  supplied  to  support  the 
wants  of  life,  but  not  its  follies.  This  young  lady,  thy  wife, 
shall  be  put  in  possession  of  a  third  part  of  that  fortune  which 
was  once  thine,  and  from  her  tenderness  alone  thou  art  to  ex- 
pect any  extraordinary  supplies  for  the  future."  He  was  going 
to  express  his  gratitude  for  such  kindness  in  a  set  speech ;  but 
the  Baronet  prevented  him,  by  bidding  him  not  aggravate  his 
meanness,  which  was  already  but  too  apparent.  He  ordered 
him  at  the  same  time  to  be  gone,  and  from  all  his  former  domes- 
tics to  choose  one,  such  as  he  should  think  proper^  which  was 
all  that  should  be  granted  to  attend  him. 

As  soon  as  he  left  us,  Sir  William  very  politely  stepped  up 
to  his  new  niece  with  a  smile,  and  wished  her  joy.  His  ex- 
ample was  followed  by  Miss  Wilmot  and  her  father.  My  wife, 


BENEVOLENCE    REPAID  177 

too,  kissed  her  daughter  with  much  affection ;  as,  to  use  her 
own  expression,  she  was  now  made  an  honest  woman  of.  Sophia 
and  Moses  followed  in  turn  ;  and  even  our  benefactor  Jenkinson 
desired  to  be  admitted  to  that  honour.  Our  satisfaction  seemed 
scarcely  capable  of  increase.  Sir  William,  whose  greatest  pleas- 
ure was  in  doing  good,  now  looked  round  with  a  countenance 
open  as  the  sun,  and  saw  nothing  but  joy  in  the  looks  of  all 
except  that  of  my  daughter  Sophia,  who,  for  some  reasons  we 
could  not  comprehend,  did  not  seem  perfectly  satisfied.  "I 
think  now,"  cried  he,  with  a  smile,  "that  all  the  company  ex- 
cept one  or  two  seem  perfectly  happy.  There  only  remains  an 
act  of  justice  for  me  to  do.  You  are  sensible,  sir,"  continued 
he,  turning  to  me,  "of  the  obligations  we  both  owe  Mr.  Jen- 
kinson ;  and  it  is  but  just  we  should  both  reward  him  for  it. 
Miss  Sophia  will,  I  am  sure,  make  him  very  happy,  and  he 
shall  have  from  me  five  hundred  pounds  as  her  fortune ;  and 
upon  this  I  am  sure  they  can  live  very  comfortably  together. 
Come,  Miss  Sophia,  what  say  you  to  this  match  of  my  making  ? 
Will  you  have  him  ?  "  My  poor  girl  seemed  almost  sinking  into 
her  mother's  arms  at  the  hideous  proposal.  "  Have  him,  sir  !  " 
cried  she  faintly:  "no,  sir,  never!" — "What!"  cried  he 
again,  "not  have  Mr.  Jenkinson,  your  benefactor,  a  handsome 
young  fellow  with  five  hundred  pounds,  and  good  expectations  ? " 
—  "I  beg,  sir,"  returned  she,  scarce  able  to  speak,  "that  you'll 
desist,  and  not  make  me  so  very  wretched." —  "Was  ever  such 
obstinacy  known?"  cried  he  again;  "to  refuse  a  man  whom 
the  family  have  such  infinite  obligations  to,  who  has  preserved 
your  sister,  and  who  has  five  hundred  pounds !  What !  not 
have  him  !  "  —  "  No,  sir,  never  !  "  replied  she  angrily ;  "  I'd 
sooner  die  first."  —  "If  that  be  the  case,  then,"  cried  he,  "if 
you  will  not  have  him  —  I  think  I  must  have  you  myself." 
And,  so  saying,  he  caught  her  to  his  breast  with  ardour.  "My 
loveliest,  my  most  sensible  of  girls,"  cried  he,  "how  oould  you 
ever  think  your  own  Burchell  could  deceive  you,  or  that  Sir 


178  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

William  Thornhill  could  ever  cease  to  admire  a  mistress  that 
loved  him  for  himself  alone  ?  I  have  for  some  years  sought  for 
a  woman,  who,  a  stranger  to  my  fortune,  could  think  that  I 
had  merit  as  a  man.  After  having  tried  in  vain,  even  amongst 
the  pert  and  the  ugly,  how  great  at  last  must  be  my  rapture 
to  have  made  a  conquest  over  such  sense  and  such  heavenly 
beauty."  Then  turning  to  Jenkinson  :  "  As  I  cannot,  sir,  part 
with  this  young  lady  myself,  for  she  has  taken  a  fancy  to  the 
cut  of  my  face,  all  the  recompense  I  can  make  is  to  give  you 
her  fortune ;  and  you  may  call  upon  my  steward  to-morrow  for 
five  hundred  pounds."  Thus  we  had  all  our  compliments  to 
repeat,  and  Lady  Thornhill  underwent  the  same  round  of  cere- 
mony that  her  sister  had  done  before.  In  the  meantime  Sir 
William's  gentleman  appeared  to  tell  us  that  the  equipages 
were  ready  to  carry  us  to  the  inn,  where  everything  was  pre- 
pared for  our  reception.  My  wife  and  I  led  the  van,  and  left 
those  gloomy  mansions  of  sorrow.  The  generous  Baronet  or- 
dered forty  pounds  to  be  distributed  among  the  prisoners,  and 
Mr.  Wilmot,  induced  by  his  example,  gave  half  that  sum.  We 
were  received  below  by  the  shouts  of  the  villagers,  and  I  saw 
and  shook  by  the  hand  two  or  three  of  my  honest  parishioners, 
who  were  among  the  number.  They  attended  us  to  our  inn, 
where  a  sumptuous  entertainment  was  provided,  and  coarser 
provisions  were  distributed  in  great  quantities  among  the 
populace. 

After  supper,  as  my  spirits  were  exhausted  by  the  alterna- 
tion of  pleasure  and  pain  which  they  had  sustained  during  the 
day,  I  asked  permission  to  withdraw ;  and,  leaving  the  company 
in  the  midst  of  their  mirth,  as  soon  as  I  found  myself  alone, 
I  poured  out  my  heart  in  gratitude  to  the  Giver  of  joy  as  well 
as  of  sorrow,  and  then  slept  undisturbed  till  morning. 


THE    CONCLUSION  179 

CHAPTER  XXXII 

The  Conclusion 

THE  next  morning  as  soon  as  I  awaked,  I  found  my  eldest 
son  sitting  by  my  bedside,  who  came  to  increase  my  joy  with 
another  turn  of  fortune  in  my  favour.  First  having  released 
me  from  the  settlement  that  I  had  made  the  day  before  in  his 
favour,  he  let  me  know  that  my  merchant,  who  had  failed  in 
town,  was  arrested  at  Antwerp,  and  there  had  given  up  effects 
to  a  much  greater  amount  than  what  was  due  to  his  creditors. 
My  boy's  generosity  pleased  me  almost  as  much  as  this  un- 
looked-for good  fortune;  but  I  had  some  doubts  whether  I 
ought,  in  justice,  to  accept  his  offer.  While  I  was  pondering 
upon  this,  Sir  William  entered  the  room,  to  whom  I  communi- 
cated my  doubts.  His  opinion  was  that,  as  my  son  was  already 
possessed  of  a  very  affluent  fortune  by  his  marriage,  I  might 
accept  his  offer  without  any  hesitation.  His  business,  however, 
was  to  inform  me,  that  as  he  had  the  night  before  sent  for  the 
licenses,  and  expected  them  every  hour,  he  hoped  that  I  would 
not  refuse  my  assistance  in  making  all  the  company  happy  that 
morning.  A  footman  entered  while  we  were  speaking,  to  tell 
us  that  the  messenger  was  returned ;  and  as  I  was  by  this  time 
ready,  I  went  down,  where  I  found  the  whole  company  as 
merry  as  affluence  and  innocence  could  make  them.  However, 
as  they  were  now  preparing  for  a  very  solemn  ceremony,  their 
laughter  entirely  displeased  me.  I  told  them  of  the  grave, 
becoming,  and  sublime  deportment  they  should  assume  upon 
this  mystical  occasion,  and  read  them  two  homilies,  and  a  thesis 
of  my  own  composing,  in  order  to  prepare  them.  Yet  they 
still  seemed  perfectly  refractory  and  ungovernable.  Even  as 
we  were  going  along  to  church,  to  which  I  led  the  way,  all 
gravity  had  quite  forsaken  them,  and  I  was  often  tempted  to 
turn  back  in  indignation.  In  church  a  new  dilemma  arose, 


180  THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD 

which  promised  no  easy  solution.  This  was,  which  couple 
should  be  married  first:  my  son's  bride  warmly  insisted  that 
Lady  Thornhill  (that  was  to  be)  should  take  the  lead;  but 
this  the  other  refused  with  equal  ardour,  protesting  she  would 
not  be  guilty  of  such  rudeness  for  the  world.  The  argument 
was  supported  for  some  time  between  both,  with  equal 
obstinacy  and  good  breeding.  But,  as  I  stood  all  this  time 
with  my  book  ready,  I  was  at  last  quite  tired  of  the  contest ; 
and,  shutting  it,  "I  perceive,"  cried  I,  " that  none  of  you  have 
a  mind  to  be  married,  and  I  think  we  had  as  good  go  back 
again ;  for  I  suppose  there  will  be  no  business  done  here  to-day." 
This  at  once  reduced  them  to  reason.  The  Baronet  and  his  lady 
were  first  married,  and  then  my  son  and  his  lovely  partner. 

I  had  previously,  that  morning,  given  orders  that  a  coach 
should  be  sent  for  my  honest  neighbour  Flamborough  and  his 
family ;  by  which  means,  upon  our  return  to  the  inn,  we  had 
the  pleasure  of  finding  the  two  Miss  Flamboroughs  alighted 
before  us.  Mr.  Jenkinson  gave  his  hand  to  the  eldest,  and 
my  son  Moses  led  up  the  other  (and  I  have  since  found,  that 
he  has  taken  a  real  liking  to  the  girl,  and  my  consent  and 
bounty  he  shall  have,  whenever  he  thinks  proper  to  demand 
them).  We  were  no  sooner  returned  to  the  inn,  but  numbers 
of  my  parishioners,  hearing  of  my  success,  came  to  congratulate 
me ;  but,  among  the  rest,  were  those  who  rose  to  rescue  me, 
and  whom  I  formerly  rebuked  with  such  sharpness.  I  told 
the  story  to  Sir  William,  my  son-in-law,  who  went  out  and 
reproved  them  with  great  severity;  but  finding  them  quite 
disheartened  by  his  harsh  reproof,  he  gave  them  half  a  guinea 
apiece  to  drink  his  health,  and  raise  their  dejected  spirits. 

Soon  after  this  we  were  called  to  a  very  genteel  entertain- 
ment, which  was  dressed  by  Mr.  Thornhill's  cook.  —  And  it 
may  not  be  improper  to  observe  with  respect  to  that  gentleman, 
that  he  now  resides,  in  quality  of  companion,  at  a  relation's 
house,  being  very  well  liked,  and  seldom  sitting  at  the  side- 


THE    CONCLUSION  181 

table,  except  when  there  is  no  room  at  the  other;  for  they 
make  no  stranger  of  him.  His  time  is  pretty  much  taken  up 
in  keeping  his  relation,  who  is  a  little  melancholy,  in  spirits, 
and  in  learning  to  blow  the  French  horn.  My  eldest  daughter, 
however,  still  remembers  him  with  regret ;  and  she  has  even 
told  me,  though  I  make  a  great  secret  of  it,  that  when  he  re- 
forms, she  may  be  brought  to  relent.  —  But  to  return,  for  I 
am  not  apt  to  digress  thus :  when  we  were  to  sit  down  to  din- 
ner our  ceremonies  were  going  to  be  renewed.  The  question 
was,  whether  my  eldest  daughter,  as  being  a  matron,  should 
not  sit  above  the  two  young  brides ;  but  the  debate  was  cut 
short  by  my  son  George,  who  proposed  that  the  company  should 
sit  indiscriminately,  every  gentleman  by  his  "lady.  This  was 
received  with  great  approbation  by  all,  excepting  my  wife,  who,  * 
I  could  perceive,  was  not  perfectly  satisfied,  as  she  expected  to  j 
have  had  the  pleasure  of  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and 
carving  all  the  meat  for  all  the  company.  But,  notwithstand- 
ing this,  it  is  impossible  to  describe  our  good  humour.  I  can't 
say  whether  we  had  more  wit  among  us  now  than  usual ;  but 
I  am  certain  we  had  more  laughing,  which  answered  the  end 
as  well.  One  jest  I  particularly  remember :  old  Mr.  Wilmot 
drinking  to  Moses,  whose  head  was  turned  another  way,  my 
son  replied,  "  Madam,  I  thank  you."  Upon  which  the  old 
gentleman,  winking  upon  the  rest  of  the  company,  observed 
that  he  was  thinking  of  his  mistress.  At  which  jest  I  thought 
the  two  Miss  Flamboroughs  would  have  died  with  laughing. 
As  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  according  to  my  old  custom,  I 
requested  that  the  table  might  be  taken  away  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  all  my  family  assembled  once  more  by  a 
cheerful  fire-side.  My  two  little  ones  sat  upon  each  knee,  the 
rest  of  the  company  by  their  partners.  I  had  nothing  now  on 
this  side  of  the  grave  to  wish  for :  all  my  cares  were  over ;  my 
pleasure  was  unspeakable.  It  now  only  remained,  that  my 
gratitude  in  good  fortune  should  exceed  my  former  submission 
in  adversity. 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 


J.  P.  ANDERSON  of  the  British  Museum  gives  the  titles  of  a 
hundred  or  more  editions  of  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  published 
between  1766  and  1886 ;  and  since  that  date  many  more  have 
appeared.  The  book  reached  five  editions  before  Goldsmith's 
death,  but  after  the  second  few  changes  were  made.  The  most 
attractive  modern  edition  without  notes  is  certainly  the  volume 
edited  by  Austin  Dobson,  and  illustrated  by  Hugh  Thomson,  whose 
pictures  in  themselves  are  a  liberal  commentary.  A  facsimile 
reprint  of  the  first  edition  is  also  the  work  of  Austin  Dobson. 

The  Globe  Edition  of  Goldsmith's  Miscellaneous  Works,  in  one 
volume,  is  especially  convenient  for  reference.  Other  standard 
editions  of  the  Works,  each  in  several  volumes,  are  Prior's  (1837), 
Cunningham's  (1854),  and  Gibbs's  (1884). 

The  most  interesting  short  sketch  of  Goldsmith's  character  is  in 
Thackeray's  English  Humourists;  the  most  compact  and  thorough 
sketch  of  his  life  and  work  is  Masson's  Memoir,  prefixed  to  the 
Globe  Works. 

Of  short  biographies  Washington  Irving's  (1844),  William 
Black's  (English  Men  of  Letters  Series,  1878),  and  Austin  Dob- 
son's  (Great  Writers  Series,  1886)  are  the  best.  The  first  two  are 
especially  readable,  the  third  is  more  discriminating  and  scholarly. 
All  of  these  shorter  works  draw  much  from  John  Forster's  extended 
biography  (The  Life  and  Times  of  Goldsmith,  1848). 

For  those  who  desire  to  read  further  in  the  mass  of  literature 
which  deals  with  Goldsmith,  a  key  is  furnished  in  the  full  Bibli- 
ography appended  to  Dobson' s  Life. 

183 


NOTES 


CHAPTER   I 

Page  1.  taken  orders.  The  Established  Church  of  England 
plays  so  large  a  part  in  English  fiction  that  some  knowledge  of  its 
commoner  technicalities  is  to  be  taken  for  granted.  Very  few  of 
them,  therefore,  are  given  special  comment  in  these  notes.  The 
reader  who  does  not  clearly  understand  such  terms  as  * '  take 
orders,"  "living,"  "diocese,"  "cure,"  etc.,  should  of  course  turn 
to  the  dictionaries. 

Page  1.  notable.  In  Dr.  Johnson's  Dictionary,  which  gives 
the  usage  of  Goldsmith's  time,  this  word  is  defined  as  meaning 
"careful,  bustling."  When  used  in  this  sense  the  word  is  pro- 
nounced notable. 

Page  1.  moral.  The  word  is  evidently  used  as  a  synonym  of 
"  rural  "  ;  it  is  not  a  surprise,  therefore,  to  find  the  meaning  given 
in  Johnson  as  "popular,  customary." 

Page  2.  affinity.  Blood-relationship;  a  meaning  no  longer 
employed  in  our  modern  use  of  the  word. 

Page  2.  heralds7  office.  The  English  Heralds'  College  is  an 
official  body,  whose  duty  it  is  to  preserve  genealogical  records,  and 
to  grant  coats  of  arms. 

Page  4.  that  luxuriancy  of  beauty  .  .  .  Hebe.  Compare  Mil- 
ton, £' Allegro,  28-30:  — 

"  Wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimpled  sleek." 
184 


NOTES  185 


CHAPTER  II 

Page  5.  The  profits  of  my  living.  That  is,  the  income  de- 
rived from  property  belonging  to  the  Church,  and  technically 
known  as  temporalities.  The  thirty-five  pounds  a  year  was  not, 
then,  a  salary,  but  an  average  income.  The  parson  in  The 
Deserted  Village,  and  Goldsmith's  own  father  for  a  time,  were 
11  passing  rich  at  forty  pounds  a  year." 

Page  5.  Whiston.  William  Whiston  (1667-1752),  an  English 
theologian,  noted  in  his  own  day  for  his  learning  and  for  his 
hobbies.  This  question  of  "monogamy"  figured  for  a  time  in 
English  theological  controversy  somewhat  as  the  question  of  mar- 
riage with  the  "deceased  wife's  sister"  has  figured  in  English 
political  controversy  in  more  recent  times. 

Page  5.  monogamist.  Contrasting,  of  course,  not  with  "  biga- 
mist," but  with  "  deuterogamist. " 

Page  5.  the  happy  few.  Compare  The  Bee  (No.  IV):  "I 
have  as  much  pride  as  they  who  have  ten  times  as  many  readers. 
...  I  conclude  that  what  my  reputation  wants  in  extent  is  made 
up  by  its  solidity.  Minus  juvat  gloria  lata  quam  magna.  I  have 
great  satisfaction  in  considering  the  delicacy  and  discernment  of 
those  readers  I  have,  and  in  ascribing  my  want  of  popularity  to 
the  ignorance  and  inattention  of  those  I  have  not. ' ' 

Page  7.  country-dances.  A  corruption  of  the  French  contre- 
danse  j  a  dance  (like  the  still  popular  "Virginia  Reel")  in  which 
the  partners  stood  in  lines  opposite  (contre)  each  other. 

Page  7.  except  backgammon.  Although  on  general  princi- 
ples the  Vicar  condemns  gaming  (a  century  ago  "gambling"  was 
an  uncommon  word)  he  has  his  private  reservation. 

Page  7.  quatre  .  .  .  deuce-ace.  He  needed  a  four-spot,  but 
the  dice  gave  him  only  a  three. 


186  NOTES 


CHAPTER   III 

Page  9.  managing  a  little  farm.  At  the  time  of  Goldsmith's 
birth,  his  father  was  laboriously  adding  in  this  way  to  the  very 
small  proceeds  of  his  living. 

Page  9.  You  cannot  be  ignorant,  etc.  This  is  the  first  of  the 
many  short  homilies  of  which  the  Vicar  delivers  himself  in  the 
course  of  the  tale  ;  sometimes  for  the  benefit  of  his  family,  some- 
times frankly  for  the  edification  of  the  reader.  In  these  didactic 
passages  his  style  becomes  formal  and  declamatory.  See  Intro- 
duction, p.  xxxii. 

Page  10.  Hooker.  Richard  Hooker  (1554-1600)  ;  the  greatest 
English  theologian  of  his  century.  "The  Bishop  said  to  him, 
'  Richard,  I  sent  for  you  back  to  lend  you  a  horse,  which  hath 
carried  me  many  a  mile,  and  I  thank  God  with  much  ease ' ;  and 
presently  delivered  into  his  hand  a  walking  .staff "  (Isaac  Walton's 
Life  of  Hooker}. 

Page  10.  Bishop  Jewel.  John  Jewell,  Bishop  of  Salisbury 
(1522-1571),  a  leader  in  the  English  Reformation. 

Page  10.  I  have  been  young,  etc.  See  the  thirty-seventh 
Psalm. 

Page  11.  gave  me  some  pain.  The  Vicar's  condemnation  of 
the  dissolute  Squire  is  rather  perfunctory.  See  Introduction, 
p.  xxx. 

Page  11.   laced.     Trimmed  with  gold  or  silver  lace. 

Page  14.  But  in  proportion,  etc.  The  character  which  is 
ascribed  here  to  the  youth  of  Sir  William  Thornhill,  and  which 
had  before  this  been  exhibited  in  young  Honey  wood  {The  Good- 
Natured  Man),  is  plainly  that  of  Goldsmith  himself.  Excellent  as 
is  the  moral  which  he  draws  from  the  picture  of  indiscriminate 
good-nature,  it  had  no  effect  on  his  own  practice.  We  may  be 
sure  that  it  was  a  lavish  charity,  as  well  as  personal  extravagance, 
which  brought  about  his  premature  death. 


NOTES  187 

The  parallel  between  the  situations  here  and  in  The  Good- 
Natured  Man  is  somewhat  close.  In  each  case  an  incognito 
Sir  William  is  the  uncle,  but  in  the  comedy  it  is  the  nephew 
who  is  the  good-natured  spendthrift.  Certain  passages  in  the 
narrative  of  Mr.  Burchell  are  evident  echoes  of  Honeywood's 
speeches  in  the  fifth  act  of  the  comedy.  As  a  further  illustration 
of  Goldsmith's  economy  of  incident,  it  will  be  seen  that  he  makes 
double  use  in  this  tale  of  his  own  youthful  journey  through  Europe 
on  foot ;  Mr.  Burchell  and  George  Primrose  recording  the  same 
experience.  (See  Chapter  XX,  below.) 

Page  14.  humourist.  In  its  older  sense  of  "whimsical  fellow  "  ; 
so  in  As  You  Like  It  "humorous"  is  the  epithet  which  properly 
describes  the  capricious  Duke  Frederick,  though  we  find  in  him 
no  suggestion  of  humor  in  the  modern  sense. 

CHAPTER  IV 

Page  15.  Shrovetide.  "The  day  before  Ash  Wednesday.  So 
called  from  the  shriving  or  confession  appointed  for  that  day,  in 
preparation  for  the  penitential  season  of  Lent.  Pancakes  were 
eaten,  as  flesh  was  forbidden  on  Shrove  Tuesday,  and  the  bell 
which  rang  for  service  was  called  the  pancake  bell  "  (Riggs). 

Page  15.  Michaelmas.  St.  Michael's  Day,  September  29th. 
In  connection  with  this  passage,  an  interesting  item  is  quoted- by 
Jordan  from  Dyer's  British  Popular  Customs  :  "  A  curious  custom 
once  existed  at  Kingston,  viz.  that  of  the  congregation  cracking 
nuts  during  the  performance  of  divine  service  on  the  Sunday  next 
before  the  eve  of  St.  Michael's  Day  :  hence  the  phrase  '  Crack-Nut 
Sunday.'  " 

Page  15.  pipe  and  tabor.     Fife  and  drum. 

Page  16.  coppers.    Large  copper  vessels  for  cooking  or  washing. 

Page  16.  in  bright  rows  on  the  shelves.  This  detail,  no  doubt 
a  reminiscence  of  his  early  home,  is  twice  used  by  Goldsmith 


188  NOTES 

elsewhere ;   in  the  fragmentary  Description  of  an  Author's  Bed- 
chamber : 

"  And  five  cracked  teacups  graced  the  chimney  board  "  ; 
and  in  The  Deserted  Village  :  — 

"  While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glittered  in  a  row." 

Page  17.  Johnny  Armstrong  .  .  .  Barbara  Allen.  These 
ballads  were  evidently  favorites  of  Goldsmith's  boyhood ;  he 
several  times  mentions  them  together.  They  may  be  found  in 
any  collection  of  ballads ;  for  example,  in  Allingham's  Ballad 
Book  (Golden  Treasury  Series). 

Page  17.   bugles.     Black  bead-work. 

Page  17.  catgut.  A  rough  canvas  which  served  as  background 
for  embroidery. 

Page  17.  paduasoy.  A  rich  silk  material  (Fr.  soie)  made  first 
in  Padua. 

Page  17.  faces  patched.  Adorned  with  black  patches  to  set 
off  the  complexion ;  a  fashion  common  among  the  beaux,  as  well 
as  the  belles,  of  the  last  century. 

Page  18.   shredding.    Fringe. 

Page  18.  the  nakedness  of  the  indigent,  etc.  Goldsmith  later 
put  this  speech  into  the  mouth  of  old  Hardcastle  (She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,  I,  i). 

CHAPTER  V 

Page  18.  a  hedge  of  hawthorn.  Compare  The  Deserted  Vil- 
lage, 13,  14  :  — 

"The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made." 

Page  19.  an  occasional  banquet.  "Tea,  in  Goldsmith's  day," 
says  Hudson,  "  was  an  expensive  luxury,  costing  from  twelve  shil- 
lings to  thirty  shillings  a  pound  ($3  to  $7.50).  After  their 
reverses  of  fortune,  the  family  could  afford  it  only  occasionally." 


NOTES  189 

Page  19.  centaury.  Gentian ;  said  to  have  been  valued  by  the 
centaurs  for  its  medicinal  powers. 

Page  19.  vacant.  Here,  simply  "  unemployed."  Compare 
"vacation." 

Page  20.  salute.  Young  Thornhill's  attempt  to  kiss  the  girls 
was  a  familiarity  rather  than  an  insult.  In  the  eighteenth  century 
kissing  was  still  an  ordinary  courtesy  among  acquaintances.  It 
is  only  in  our  own  time  that  Anglo-Saxon  undemonstrativeness 
has  banished  the  kiss,  like  "thee  and  thou,"  from  society. 

CHAPTEE  VI 

Page  22.  the  poor  man's  friendship.  The  Vicar's  references 
to  Mr.  Burchell  all  betray  a  conscious  magnanimity.  It  is  evident 
that,  with  all  his  moralizing,  when  the  question  of  his  daughters' 
welfare  comes  up,  he  is  as  worldly  as  his  wife. 

Page  23.  character.  Reputation ;  an  allowed  usage  in  Gold- 
smith's time. 

Page  23.  The  Buck  of  Beverland,  Patient  Grissel,  Catskin, 
Fair  Rosamond's  Bower.  All  these  stories  except  the  first,  which 
has  not  been  found,  are  given  in  ballad  form  in  Child's  English 
and  Scottish  Ballads.  For  the  most  famous  version  of  the  story 
of  " Patient  Grissel,"  see  Chaucer's  Clerk's  Tale.  " Catskin"  is 
another  name  for  "  Cinderella." 

CHAPTER  VII 

Page  26.  chaplain.  Every  noble  family  had  its  clergyman  in 
attendance  as  a  regular  officer  of  the  household,  who  often  vied 
in  dissoluteness  with  the  master  of  the  house.  The  sporting  chap- 
lain is  prominent  in  the  history  of  eighteenth-century  manners. 
Of  this  type  Thackeray's  "Mr.  Sampson"  (The  Virginians)  is 
an  excellent  example. 

Page  26.  feeder.  A  confidential  parasite  or  hanger-on.  Such 
is  the  position  which  George  Primrose  later  holds  for  a  time  in 
the  Squire's  household.  (See  Chapter  XX.) 


190  NOTES 

Page  26.  St.  Dunstan's.  St.  Dunstan's  in  the  West,  an  old 
church  in  London  (long  since  torn  down)  which  was  noted  for  its 
clock,  flanked  by  two  wooden  figures  which  struck  the  quarter- 
hours. 

Page  27.  smoked  him.  The  eighteenth  century  equivalent  of 
the  modern  slang  "sized  him  up."  "To  smoke,  to  smell  out,  to 
find  out"  (Johnson). 

Page  29.  a  freethinker.  Evidently  the  Vicar  shares  the  opinion 
of  freethinking  expressed  by  Dr.  Johnson  in  his  definition  :  "  Free- 
thinker :  a  libertine  ;  a  contemner  of  religion." 

Page  30.  Thwackum  and  Square.  Olivia  has  read  her  Fielding, 
as  a  matter  of  course.  The  "disputes"  are  quasi-philosophical 
arguments  between  two  of  the  characters  in  Tom  Jones. 

Page  30.  Religious  Courtship.  By  Defoe  ;  a  demonstration  of 
the  consequences  of  marriage  between  persons  of  different  religious 
beliefs. 

CHAPTER  VIII 

Page  31.  I  never  sit  thus.  That  is,  upon  the  hay  ;  the  lovers 
were  seated  upon  a  haycock  when  the  bolt  fell.  Gay  first  told  the 
story  in  a  letter  ;  it  was  afterward  moralized  upon  by  Pope  in  two 
high-flown  epitaphs  which  he  attributed  to  Gay.  Thackeray  quotes 
the  letter  in  his  lecture  on  Prior,  Gay,  and  Pope  (English  Hu- 
mourists) . 

Page  31.  Acis  and  Galatea.  Ovid,  Metamorphoses,  XIII.  750- 
897. 

Page  31.  loading  .  .  .  with  epithet.  Goldsmith  said  of  Gray's 
Elegy :  "This  is  a  very  fine  poem,  but  overloaded  with  epithet." 

Page  31.  a  Ballad.  "Out  of  many  metrical  discussions  with 
Percy  had  grown  a  ballad  in  old  style,  to  which  Goldsmith  gave 
the  title  of  4  Edwin  and  Angelina,'  although  it  was  afterwards 
known  as  'The  Hermit.'  The  Countess  of  Northumberland  ad- 
mired it  so  much  that  a  few  copies,  now  of  the  rarest,  were  struck 
off  for  her  benefit,  and  it  was  afterward  included  in  '  The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield. '  Goldsmith  took  immense  pains  with  this  poem.  The 


NOTES  191 

privately  printed  edition  differs  considerably  from  that  in  the 
'  Vicar ' ;  the  text  in  the  '  Vicar '  varies  in  the  successive  editions  ; 
and  there  are  other  variations  in  the  volume  of  selections  in  which 
he  afterwards  included  it.  'As  to  my  u  Hermit,"  that  poem,'  he 
told  Cradock,  cannot  be  amended.'  And  Hawkins  only  echoed 
contemporary  opinion  when  he  called  it  i  one  of  the  first  poems  of 
the  lyric  kind  that  our  language  has  to  boast  of"  (Dobson). 
The  ballad  is  hardly  "in  old  style."  In  metre  it  is  far  too 
regular,  and  in  sentiment  far  too  modern.  Only  in  the  theme  and 
in  the  general  conception  of  its  treatment  is  it  genuinely  u  old 
style."  Its  primness,  its  regularity,  and  a  hundred  turns  of 
phrase  mark  it  as  a  characteristic  bit  of  eighteenth-century  work  :  — 

"  To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 

With  hospitable  ray  "  ;  — 
"  His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied, 

With  answering  care  oppress 'd  "  ;  — 

This  is  the  phraseology  of  Pope  and  his  school,  of  which  neatness 
and  formality  are  main  traits  ;  nothing  could  be  farther  from  the 
strong  simplicity  of  the  real  ballad  of  the  people.  The  poem  has 
a  certain  affected  prettiness  ;  but  it  is  hard  to  see  how  it  could  be 
taken  so  seriously,  even  at  that  time,  when  English  poetry  was  at 
so  low  an  ebb. 

Page  32.  Man  wants  but  little,  etc.  Quoted  from  Young, 
Night  Thoughts,  IV,  9. 

Page  36.  Mr.  Burchell  .  .  .  resigned  her.  It  is  necessary 
that  Mr.  Burchell  should  be  removed  from  the  stage  before  the 
Squire  comes  on.  Frequent  visitors  as  they  both  are  at  the  Prim- 
roses', these  two  are  not  to  meet  till  the  denouement;  otherwise 
there  could  be  no  story. 

CHAPTER   IX 

Page  37.  under  gentlemen.  Probably  the  chaplain  and 
"feeder,"  the  Squire's  usual  companions. 

Page  38.  pictures,  taste,  Shakespeare,  and  the  musical  glasses. 


192  NOTES 

"Art"  and  "Culture"  are  exactly  the  modern  equivalents  of 
"pictures"  and  "taste"  as  fashionable  catchwords.  The  .eigh- 
teenth century  revival  of  interest  in  Shakespeare  was  only  a  fad 
in  the  eyes  of  the  ultra-fashionable,  worthy  to  rank  in  interest 
with  the  musical  toy  which  was  in  vogue  at  the  time  when  this 
story  was  written. 

Page  38.  swearing  perfectly  unfashionable.  It  was  not  so 
during  the  first  half  of  the  century.  Thackeray  says  :  "  We  can't 
tell  —  you  would  not  bear  to  be  told  —  the  whole  truth  regarding 
those  men  and  manners.  You  could  no  more  suffer  in  a  British 
drawing-room,  under  the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria,  a  fine  gentleman 
or  fine  lady  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  or  hear  what  they  heard  and 
said,  than  you  would  receive  an  ancient  Briton"  {English  Hu- 
mourists. Steele).  In  this  connection  Miss  Jordan  quotes  a 
remark  made  of  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough  in  1738:  "I  could 
not  make  her  out,  sir,  who  she  was,  for  she  would  not  tell  me  her 
name ;  but  she  swore  so  dreadfully  that  she  must  be  a  lady  of 
quality." 

Page  39.   coup  de  main.     A  single  clever  stroke. 

CHAPTER  X 
Page  41.   flourishing.     Embroidering  in  fanciful  patterns. 

Page  41.  Nabob.  This  word,  which  originally  meant  a  native 
Indian  prince,  had  already  come  to  mean  an  English  adventurer 
who  had  gained  great  wealth  in  India.  Only  a  year  or  two  before 
the  writing  of  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Robert  Clive,  the  greatest  of 
English  nabobs,  had  made  his  triumphal  return  from  India,  the 
master  of  an  enormous  fortune  ;  had  been  made  an  Irish  peer,  and 
admitted  (in  1761)  to  the  House  of  Commons. 

Page  43.  smock  race.  A  favorite  contest  among  country  girls, 
of  which  the  prize  was  a  holland  smock  or  under-garment,  adorned 
with  ribbons.  A  smock  race  is  one  of  the  advertised  attractions  in 
Hogarth's  picture,  Southward  Fair. 


NOTES  193 


CHAPTER   XI 

Page  45.  lamb's- wool.  Ale  sweetened,  spiced,  and  mixed  with 
the  pulp  of  roasted  apples. 

Page  45.  hot  cockles.  "A  play  in  which  one  kneels,  and, 
covering  his  eyes,  lays  his  head  in  another's  lap,  and  guesses  who 
strikes  him"  (Strutt,  Sports  and  Pastimes). 

Page  46.  the  whole  name.  Goldsmith  had  already  given  this 
melodious  combination  of  names  to  the  daughter  of  Beau  Tibbs 
(Citizen  of  the  World,  LV). 

Page  46.   rout.    Fashionable  assembly. 

Page  46.  sound.  Swoon.  Coleridge  uses  the  intermediate 
form  "swound"  in  The  Ancient  Mariner  (I,  62). 

Page  47.  Dr.  Burdock.  Laurel  being  the  prize  of  the  real 
poet,  the  quality  of  the  doctor's  verses  is  slily  hinted  at  in  his 
name. 

Page  47.  seldom  leaves  anything  out.  Anything  scandalous 
or  indecent.  That  his  verses  were  written  "only  for  his  own 
amusement "  has  always  been  the  excuse  of  the  scurrilous  versifier. 

Page  47.  Lady's  Magazine.  This  is  a  joke  by  the  author  at 
his  own  expense.  For  some  time  —  probably  when  this  passage 
was  written  —  Goldsmith  was  editor  of  The  Lady's  Magazine. 

Page  48.  assurance.  The  word  means  to  Goldsmith  hardly 
more  than  our  "confidence."  Indeed,  the  words  seem  almost  to 
have  changed  places  in  his  usage.  Note  the  use  of  "  confidence  " 
in  the  heading  to  Chapter  XIII. 

Page  48.   plain-work.     Plain  sewing. 
Page  48.   smallclothes.     Knee-breeches. 

Page  48.  cut  paper.  Cut  profiles  out  of  paper,  to  be  mounted 
in  the  form  of  silhouettes ;  a  fashionable  amusement  of  the  time. 
See  Pope's  witty  verses  On  the  Countess  of  Burlington  Cutting 
Paper. 


194  NOTES 


CHAPTER   XII 

Page  50.  Entre  nous.  Between  ourselves.  Mrs.  Primrose 
has  already  profited  by  her  London  acquaintances.  Her  use  of 
" protest"  and  "vastly,"  as  well  as  her  jaunty  French  phrase, 
shows  that  she  has  fairly  caught  the  elegant  affectation  of  their 
style. 

Page  50.  fitting  out  Moses.  His  hair,  which  he  usually  allows 
to  hang  unkempt  about  his  shoulders,  is  trimmed  and  caught  into 
a  queue  ;  his  shoe-buckles  and  knee-buckles  are  polished  ;  and  his 
broad-brimmed  hat  is  converted  by  a  pin  or  two  into  something 
like  the  fashionable  three-cornered  hat  of  the  period. 

Page  50.   thunder-and-lightning.     "Pepper-and-salt." 

Page  50.  gosling  green.  Yellowish  green,  like  the  down  of  a 
gosling. 

Page  50.  wafers.    For  sealing  letters. 

CHAPTER  XIII 
Page  54.   Confidence.    Assurance.    See  note  on  p.  48,  above. 

CHAPTER  XIV 

Page  58.  chapman.  Here,  a  customer.  UA  cheapener;  one 
that  offers  as  a  purchaser  "  (Johnson). 

Page  58.  St.  Gregory.  There  are  nine  St.  Gregories.  This 
was  probably  Pope  Gregory  I. 

Page  60.  Sanchoniathon,  Manetho,  Berosus,  and  Ocellus 
Lucanus.  These  were  respectively  a  Phoenician,  an  Egyptian,  a 
Chaldean,  and  a  Greek ;  the  first  three  ancient  historians,  the 
fourth  a  philosopher.  Only  a  few  fragments  have  come  down  to 
us  from  these  writers.  The  first  quotation  is  supposably  genuine  ; 
the  second  is  ungrammatical,  and  of  doubtful  meaning.  Goldsmith 


NOTES  195 

perhaps  avoids  the  Greek  lettering  because,  in  his  day,  while 
every  one  knew  a  little  Latin,  very  few  persons  had'any  acquaint- 
ance with  Greek. 

CHAPTER   XV 

Page  65.  a  jest-book.  Jest-books  were  very  popular  in  the 
last  century.  The  most  famous  of  them,  Joe  Miller's,  was  pub- 
lished about  twenty  years  before  The  Vicar  of  Wakejield. 

Page  66.    maxim  of  Pope.     Essay  on  Man,  IV.  248. 

Page  66.  the  champion.  Not,  the  athlete,  but  the  military 
hero. 

Page  67.  I  could  hang  you  all.  Mr.  Burchell's  words  were 
not  so  idle  as  they  may  seem  to  the  modern  reader.  In  Gold- 
smith's England  a  trifling  theft  was  a  capital  offense. 

CHAPTER   XVI 

Page  70.  historical  family  piece.  The  description  of  this 
"piece,"  with  its  absurd  conjunction  of  historical  and  mythical 
figures  —  and  a  monogamist  Vicar  thrown  in  —  is,  of  course,  inten- 
tionally satirical  of  one  of  the  fashions  of  Goldsmith's  day.  See 
Introduction,  p.  xxxi. 

Page  70.  stomacher.  "An  ornamental  covering  worn  by 
women  on  the  breast"  (Johnson). 

Page  70.  Joseph.  A  long  garment  with  a  cape,  for  out-of-door 
wear.  Like  Venus's  diamonds,  it  was  probably  to  be  supplied  in 
the  process  of  painting  by  the  liberal  fancy  of  the  artist. 

Page  71.   reel.    Spool. 

CHAPTER   XVII 

Page  76.  Death  and  the  Lady.  A  rough-hewn  ballad,  to  be 
found  in  Bell's  Ballads  of  the  Peasantry. 

Page  76.    An  Elegy.     These   verses,  like   Goldsmith's  other 


196  NOTES 

mock-elegy  On  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize,  are  undoubtedly  of  French 
suggestion.     Voltaire's  epitaph  On  Freron  reads :  — 
"  L'autre  jour,  au  fond  d'un  vallon, 

Un  serpent  mordit  Jean  Freron. 

Devinez  ce  qu'il  arriva  ? 

Ce  fut  le  serpent  qui  creva." 

Goldsmith  elsewhere  ridicules  the  popular  fear  of  mad  dogs  (  Citi- 
zen of  the  World,  LXIX). 

Page  78.  Ranelagh.  A  popular  resort  in  London  during  the 
latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century.  * '  A  vast  amphitheatre,  finely 
gilt,  painted,  and  illuminated,  into  which  everybody  that  loves  eat- 
ing, drinking,  staring,  or  crowding,  is  admitted  at  twelve-pence" 
(Walpole). 

Page  78.    fairing.     A  ribbon  or  other  trinket  bought  at  a  fair. 

Page  78.  nymphs  and  swains.  There  are  no  boys  and  girls, 
young  men  and  maidens,  in  the  conventional  vocabulary  of  eigh- 
teenth-century verse. 

Page  78.  Fontarabia.  A  Spanish  town  where,  according  to 
tradition,  it  was  the  custom,  once  a  year,  for  the  Spanish  country 
maidens  to  offer  themselves  for  inspection  by  possible  husbands. 

Page  79.  But  where  is  Olivia?  With  the  disappearance  of 
Olivia  the  tone  of  the  story  changes.  Its  simple  descriptive  charm 
becomes  secondary  —  in  the  intention  of  the  author  —  to  the  exi- 
gencies of  plot. 

CHAPTER   XVIII 

Page  82.  the  Wells.  Some  one  of  the  several  watering-places 
to  which  the  fashionable  world  resorted,  nominally  to  drink  the 
waters,  but  really  for  pleasure.  The  most  famous  of  these  resorts, 
Bath,  is  prominent  in  eighteenth-century  literature. 

Page  83.  philanthropic  bookseller.  John  Newbury,  a  friend 
and  patron  of  Goldsmith's,  and  publisher  of  The  Traveller.  His 
son,  Francis  Newbury,  published  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

Page  83.  Mr.  Thomas  Trip.  Among  numerous  other  books 
for  children,  Newbury  published  The  Travels  of  Tommy  Trip. 


NOTES  197 

Page  83.   Deuterogamists.     See  note  on  p.  5  above. 

Page  88.   'Still.     Continually  ;  the  older  meaning  of  the  word. 

Page  84.  Drydens  and  Otways  .  .  .  Shakespeare.  Gold- 
smith evidently  preferred  the  dramatists  of  the  Restoration  to  the 
Elizabethans.  We  cannot  wonder  that  to  him,  trained  in  the  tra- 
ditions of  the  school  of  Pope,  the  luxuriant  irregularity  of  Shake- 
speare and  his  contemporaries  should  have  compared  unfavorably 
with  the  measured  cadences  of  Dryden. 

Page  85.  Congreve  and  Farquhar.  William  Congreve  (1669- 
1729)  was  the  most  brilliant  of  Dryden's  immediate  successors. 
George  Farquhar  (1678-1707)  was  a  special  favorite  with  Goldsmith. 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer  owes  something  of  its  spirit  and  treatment 
to  Farquhar1  s  best-known  comedy,  The  Beaux'  Stratagem. 

CHAPTER   XIX 

Page  86.  Monitor  .  .  .  Auditor.  London  newspapers  of  strong 
political  bias,  which,  at  the  time  when  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  was 
written,  were  busy,  the  first  in  opposing,  the  second  in  upholding, 
the  Tory  administration  of  Lord  Bute. 

Page  86.  Ledger.  Goldsmith's  Citizen  of  the  World  papers 
first  appeared  in  The  Public  Ledger,  a  journal  of  Newbury's. 

Page  86.  the  king.  Undoubtedly  George  III,  who  had  already 
(1760)  begun  his  policy  of  dictation.  At  no  time  since  the  Revo- 
lution had  the  liberties  of  England  been  in  such  peril  as  during 
the  years  in  which  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  was  taking  shape.  Yet 
such  men  as  Goldsmith  and  Johnson  still  clung  to  the  Tory  faith. 

Page  86.  another-guess.  Properly  an  adverb,  "  otherwise." 
The  original  form  of  the  word  is  "  othergates." 

Page  87.  "No,  Sir,"  etc.  The  political  tirade  of  the  Vicar  is 
just  the  medley  of  simplicity,  Tory  prejudice,  and  common-sense 
which  we  should  expect  from  him. 

Page  87.   Levellers.     '•  A  party  in  the  Long  Parliament,  about 


198  NOTES 

1647,  which  advocated  the  destruction  of  all  distinctions  of  rank 
and  title"  (Hudson). 

Page  87.  some  are  born  to  command,  etc.  Compare  The 
Traveller,  371-374:  — 

11  For  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil, 
That  those  who  think  must  govern  those  that  toil  • 
And  all  that  freedom's  highest  aims  can  reach 
Is  but  to  lay  proportion'd  loads  on  each." 

Page  89.  Cartesian  system.  The  theory  of  Descartes  (French 
philosopher,  1596-1650)  was  that  each  planet  and  fixed  star  creates 
by  its  rotary  motion  a  vortex  or  whirlpool  in  fluid  space. 

Page  90.  the  laws  govern  the  poor,  etc.  Compare  The  Travel- 
ler, 386  :  — 

"  Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law." 

Page  90.  a  Jesuit.  The  garb  of  the  English  clergy  was  a  favor- 
ite disguise  of  the  Jesuit  leaders  Campian  and  Parsons,  who  in  1580 
did  so  much  to  advance  Eoman  Catholic  interests  in  England.  As 
the  Vicar  is  clever  at  argument,  an  advocate  of  absolute  authority, 
and  dressed  as  an  English  parson,  his  host  finds  it  easy  to  suspect 
him.  Perhaps  the  best  embodiment  in  fiction  of  the  eighteenth- 
century  Jesuit  in  England  is  Thackeray's  "Father  Holt"  {Henry 
Esmond). 

Page  90.  saddled  with  wooden  shoes.  After  the  fashion  of  the 
priest-ridden  French  peasantry. 

Page  91.   I  complied.    See  Introduction,  p.  xxx. 

Page  92.  Fair  Penitent.  A  tragedy  by  Rowe  (1673-1718). 
Though  little  more  than  an  adaptation  of  Massinger's  Fatal 
Dowry,  this  play  was  a  prime  favorite  with  the  eighteenth  century 
public.  The  leading  r61es,  Horatio  and  Lothario,  were  for  a  time 
taken  together  by  Sheridan  and  Garrick. 

CHAPTER  XX 

Page  94.  No  person  ever  had  a  better  knack,  etc.  In  one  of 
Goldsmith's  early  letters  he  says  this  of  himself.  There  is  evi- 


NOTES  199 

dently  much  of  his  own  experience  in  these  adventures  of  George 
Primrose.  He  had  been  u  an  usher  in  an  academy  "  ;  had  experi- 
enced Grub  Street ;  had  resigned  from  the  post  of  companion  to  a 
nobleman  on  account  of  his  unwillingness  to  be  a  paid  flatterer. 
He  had  travelled  through  Europe,  on  foot,  with  the  aid  of  his  flute, 
and  had  turned  a  penny  by  acting  as  guardian  to  a  penurious  youth. 
He  had  returned  to  England  as  poor  as  when  he  set  out,  and  had 
for  a  time  lived  the  life  of  a  strolling  actor. 

Page  95.  anodyne  necklace.  A  necklace  worn  as  a  charm 
against  pain.  Here,  slang  for  a  hangman's  halter. 

Page  96.  Grub  Street.  The  traditional  haunt  of  the  London 
hack-writer.  The  antiqua  mater  is,  of  course,  the  muse  of  the 
literary  drudge. 

Page  96.  I  thought  it  my  glory,  etc.  "Alas,"  says  Irving, 
after  quoting  this  passage,  "  Dryden  struggled  with  indigence  all  his 
days ;  and  Otway,  it  is  said,  fell  a  victim  to  famine  in  his  thirty- 
fifth  year,  being  strangled  by  a  roll  of  bread,  which  he  devoured 
with  the  voracity  of  a  dying  man." 

Page  97.  Propertius.  A  Roman  elegiac  poet,  friend  of  Virgil 
and  Ovid. 

Page  97.  a  dedication  fee.  It  was  still  the  fashion  for  the  poet 
to  dedicate  his  work  to  some  wealthy  nobleman,  who  was  expected  to 
u  come  down  "  handsomely.  An  excellent  illustration  of  the  fawn- 
ing flattery  which  characterized  these  dedications  is  afforded  by 
Dry  den's  versified  dedication  of  Palamon  and  Arcite.  Johnson 
and  Goldsmith  were  among  the  first  to  cast  off  this  tradition  of 
obsequiousness.  Goldsmith  dedicated  The  Traveller  to  his  brother 
Henry,  a  poor  Irish  parson ;  The  Deserted  Village  and  She  Stoops 
to  Conquer  to  his  friends  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and  Dr.  Johnson. 

Page  98.  Eastern  tales,  romantic  or  allegorical,  were  popular 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  though  they  have  little  interest  for  us. 
Goldsmith  himself  wrote  several ;  for  example,  Asem,  an  Eastern 
Tale  ;  or  a  Vindication  of  the  Wisdom  of  Providence  in  the  Moral 
Government  of  the  World. 


200  NOTES 

Page  98.  Philautos,  etc.  The  fashion  of  signing  articles  by 
fanciful  pen-names,  now  relegated  to  the  amateur  correspondent  of 
the  daily  press,  was  then  the  rule,  unless,  as  was  even  more  com- 
mon, the  article  went  altogether  unsigned. 

Page  99.    tattering  a  kip.     Eaiding  a  disorderly  house. 

Page  99.  pimping  and  pedigree.  Ministering  to  the  sensual 
pleasures  of  men  of  rank. 

Page  99.  to  fight  a  duel.  Duelling  was  a  capital  offence,  but 
still  common  in  England  and  America,  even  in  the  early  part  of 
the  present  century. 

Page  101.  Mr.  Crispe.  The  kidnapping  scheme  which  is  here 
outlined  is  only  one  of  many  which  were  employed  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  Able-bodied  men  found  a  ready  market  in  the  colonies  ; 
and  a  fortune  waited  for  any  knave  who  might  be  clever  enough 
to  decoy  them. 

Page  102.  synod.  Probably  Mr.  Crispe  meant  (if  he  meant 
anything)  the  colonial  assembly. 

Page  104.  a  tolerable  voice.  Goldsmith  himself  had  played  the 
flute  under  similar  circumstances.  Notice  that  George  Primrose, 
after  the  first  mention  of  his  voice,  speaks  not  of  singing,  but  of 
playing  :  doubtless  on  Goldsmith's  flute. 

Page  105.  cognoscente.  An  incorrect  form  of  the  Old  Italian 
cognoscente.  Connoisseur  ;  an  authority  in  matters  of  art. 

CHAPTER  XXI 

Page  110.  Lord  Falkland.  Killed  at  Newbury,  in  1643,  fighting 
in  the  cause  of  Charles  I. 

Page  111.  cross  of  her  money.  One  of  Touchstone's  jests  (As 
You  Like  It,  II.  iv)  turns  upon  the  fact  that  English  gold  and 
silver  coins  were  formerly  stamped  on  one  side  with  a  cross. 

Page  111.  with  a  susserara.  In  a  hurry.  "Susserara"  is  a 
corruption  of  "  certeriori,"  a  legal  term  meaning  a  writ  to  expedite 
justice.  "  I  fell  in  love  at  once  with  a  sisserara  "  (Sterne). 


NOTES  201 

Page  114.  privately  performed  by  a  Popish  priest.  It  was  a 
capital  crime  in  England  for  a  Roman  Catholic  to  perform  the 
marriage  ceremony  between  two  Protestants,  or  even  between  a 
Protestant  and  a  Roman  Catholic. 

CHAPTER   XXII 

Page  118.  the  notes  for  my  daughter's  fortune.  Bank  notes. 
Many  good  people  in  the  last  century  preferred  to  hoard  their 
money  in  stocking  or  teapot  rather  than  trust  it  out  of  sight.  The 
Vicar,  it  must  be  remembered,  has  lost  his  fortune  by  trusting  it 
in  other  hands. 

CHAPTER   XXIII 

Page  121.  I'll  give  you  a  story.  This  tale,  as  well  as  the  Ballad 
and  Elegy,  and  some  of  the  Vicar's  discourses,  are  probably  intro- 
duced for  "padding."  See  Introduction,  p.  xxiv.  Like  the  roman- 
tic episodes  in  Don  Quixote,  the  story  of  Matilda  has  little  or 
nothing  to  do  with  the  main  narrative. 

CHAPTER   XXIV 

Page  124.  When  lovely  woman,  etc.  uThe  charm  of  the 
words,  and  the  graceful  way  in  which  they  are  introduced,  seem 
to  have  blinded  criticism  to  the  impropriety,  and  even  inhumanity, 
of  requiring  poor  Olivia  to  sing  a  song  so  completely  applicable  to 
her  own  case  "  (Dobson). 

Page  126.   your  late  bond.    See  Chapter  XXI. 

Page  126.  driving.  "Driving  for  rent "  ordinarily  meant  driv- 
ing the  cattle  of  the  delinquent  tenant  to  pound,  and  holding  it  as 
security,  or,  as  happens  in  the  case  of  the  Vicar,  even  selling  it. 

Page  127.  those  instruments.  Consult  the  dictionary  under 
"caltrap." 

CHAPTER    XXV 

Page  130.  felons  and  debtors.  J.  R.  Green  says  of  the  English 
jail  of  this  period  :  "  Jailers,  who  bought  their  places,  were  paid  by 


202  NOTES 

fees,  and  suffered  to  extort  what  they  could.  Even  when  acquitted, 
men  were  dragged  back  to  their  cells  for  want  of  funds  to  discharge 
the  sums  they  owed  to  their  keepers.  Debtors  and  felons  were 
huddled  together  in  the  prisons,  which  Howard  found  crowded  by 
the  cruel  legislation  of  the  day.  No  separation  was  preserved  be- 
tween the  different  sexes,  no  discipline  enforced.  Every  jail  was  a 
chaos  of  cruelty  and  the  foulest  immorality,  from  which  the  prisoner 
could  only  escape  by  sheer  starvation,  or  by  the  jail-fever  that 
festered  without  ceasing  in  those  haunts  of  wretchedness. ' '  The 
matter  was  made  worse  by  the  fact  that  the  debtor  had  often  to 
bring  his  family  with  him,  having  no  means  of  providing  for  them. 
The  work  of  reforming  these  abuses  did  not  begin  till  1774.  Im- 
prisonment for  debt  was  possible  in  England  till  1869.  (See 
Thackeray's  Pendennis  and  Dickens's  Little  Dorrit.)  In  Amer- 
ica the  law  differs  in  different  states.  It  is  perhaps  not  generally 
known  that  in  Massachusetts  hundreds  of  persons  are  still  imprisoned 
for  debt  every  year. 

CHAPTER   XXVI 

Page  134.  save  from  famine.  Perhaps  the  most  absurd  of  all 
the  conditions  of  imprisonment  for  debt  was  that  the  debtor  was 
obliged  to  furnish  his  own  food  and  clothing. 

Page  135.  For  be  assured,  my  friends,  etc.  See  Introduction, 
p.  xxxii. 

CHAPTER   XXVII 

Page  140.  rather  to  reformation  than  severity.  "At  this  time 
over  one  hundred  and  fifty  offences  were  punishable  in  England  by 
death"  (Riggs). 

CHAPTER   XXVIII 

Page  147.  What !  not  one  left !  Like  Macduff's  exclamation 
(Macbeth,  IV.  iii)  :  — 

"All? 

What !  all  my  pretty  chickens  and  their  dam 
At  one  fell  swoop?  " 


NOTES 

Page  149.   Honoured  Sir.     The  style  of  George's  letter  is  that  ^ 
our  own  great-grandfathers.     "Dear  Father"  at  the  head  of  an 
eighteenth-century    letter    would    have    been    an    unpardonable 
familiarity. 

Page  151.  first  transgressor  upon  the  statute.  The  first  edition 
reads,  "  I  have  sent  a  challenge,  and  that  is  death  by  a  late  Act  of 
Parliament." 

CHAPTER   XXIX 
Page  156.  like  his  horizon,  etc.  Compare  The  Traveller,  27-28 :  — 

"  That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies." 

CHAPTER   XXX 

Page  161.  counter.  A  "chip,"  or  disk  of  metal  or  ivory  used 
for  reckoning  gains  and  losses  in  games  of  chance.  So  Jaques  (As 
You  Like  It,  II.  vii)  contemptuously  offers  to  wager  a  counter  that 
the  Duke's  accusation  is  false. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 
Page  165.   object.     Cite,  or  instance. 

Page  166.  Tyburn.  A  familiar  place  to  readers  of  eighteenth- 
century  literature  ;  scene  of  innumerable  hangings,  those  popular 
spectacles  which  our  forefathers  found  so  enlivening. 

Page  175.  And  shook  their  chains,  etc.  Quoted  from  Congreve's 
Mourning  Bride,  I.  ii. 


202 


INDEX  TO  NOTES 


Acis  and  Galatea,  190. 
Affinity,  184. 
Anodyne  necklace,  199. 
Another-guess,  197. 
Assurance,  193. 
Auditor,  197. 

Ballad,  A,  190. 

Barbara  Allen,  188. 

Berosus,  194. 

Buck  of  Beverland,  The,  189. 

Bugles,  188. 

Burdock,  Dr.,  193. 

Cartesian  system,  The,  198. 
Catgut,  188. 
Catskin,  189. 
Centaury,  189. 
Champion,  The,  195. 
Chaplain,  189. 
Chapman,  194. 
Character,  189. 
Cognoscento,  200. 
Confidence,  194. 
Congreve,  197. 
Coppers,  187. 
Counter,  203. 
Country-dances,  185. 
Coup  de  main,  192. 
Crispe,  Mr.,  200. 
Cross  of  her  money,  200. 
Cut  paper,  193. 


Death  and  the  Lady,  195. 
Dedication  fee,  199. 
Deuce-ace,  185. 
Deuterogamists,  197. 
Driving  for  rent,  201. 
Drydens  and  Otways,  197. 
Dunstan's,  St.,  190. 

Eastern  tales,  199. 
Elegy,  An,  195. 
Epithet,  190. 

Faces  patched,  188. 

Fairing,  196. 

Fair  Penitent,  198. 

Fair  Rosamond's  Bower,  189. 

Falkland,  Lord,  200. 

Farquhar,  197. 

Feeder,  189. 

Felons  and  debtors5  201. 

Flourishing,  192. 

Fontarabia,  196.  - 

Freethinker,  190. 

Gay,  30. 

Gosling  green,  194. 
Gregory,  St.,  194. 
Grub  Street,  199. 

Hebe,  184. 
Heralds'  office,  184. 
Hooker,  186. 
205 


206 


INDEX  TO  NOTES 


Hot  cockles,  193. 
Humourist,  187. 

Jest-book,  195. 
Jesuit,  198. 
Jewel,  Bishop,  186. 
Johnny  Armstrong,  188. 
Joseph,  195. 

Kidnapping,  200. 
Kip,  tattering  a,  200. 

Laced,  186. 
Lady's  Magazine,  193. 
Lamb's-wool,  193. 
Ledger,  197. 
Levellers,  197. 
Living,  profits  of,  185. 

Manetho,  194. 
Michaelmas,  187. 
Monitor,  197. 
Monogamist,  185. 
Moral,  184. 

Nabob,  192. 

Notable,  184. 

Nymphs  and  swains,  196. 

Object,  203. 

Ocellus  Lucanus,  194. 

Orders,  184. 

Otways,  Drydens  and,  197. 

Paduasoy,  188. 
Patient  Grissel,  189. 
Philautos,  200. 
Pipe  and  tabor,  187. 
Plain-work,  193. 


Popish  priest,  201. 
Propertius,  199. 

Quatre,  185. 

Ranelagh,  196. 

Reel,  195. 

Religious  Courtship,  190. 

Rout,  193. 

Sanchoniathon,  194. 
Shakespeare,  197. 
Shredding,  188. 
Shrovetide,  187. 
Smallclothes,  193. 
Smock  race,  192. 
Smoked,  190. 
Sound,  193. 

Square,  Thwackum  and,  190. 
Stomacher,  195. 
Susserara,  200. 
Swearing,  192. 
Synod,  200. 

Tea,  188. 

Temporalities.  185. 
Thunder-and-lightning,  194. 
Thwackum  and  Square,  190. 
Trip,  Mr.  Thomas,  197. 
Tyburn,  203. 

Under  gentlemen,  191. 
Vacant,  189. 

Wafers,  194. 
Wells,  The,  196. 
Whiston,  185. 


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Exercises  in  Rhetoric  and  English 
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By  GEORGE  R.   CARPENTER, 

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Studies  in  Structure  and  Style* 

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